


A Piece of the Continent

by thestoryinsideme



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Communication, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Episode: s11e23 Alpha and Omega, Protective Dean Winchester, Romance, canon compliant through 11.23, post season 11 finale, supernatural universe, unprecedented levels of communication
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-07-21 15:48:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7393627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestoryinsideme/pseuds/thestoryinsideme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean struggles with his life as a hunter after he returns from spending three virtual days with the mother he lost more than thirty years ago.</p><p>Based on <a href="http://thestoryinsideme.tumblr.com/tagged/yeah-i-just-made-myself-want-this/">this post</a> that I made the night of the season 11 finale, along with a burning desire to see TFW make some changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Mother’s love is peace. It need not be acquired, it need not be deserved.** — _Erich Fromm_

 

Dean spends three days with his mother.

At least it seemed like three days. He had no idea how time worked wherever it was they’d both been dumped. It wasn’t Earth, Dean had little doubt about that. No people, no cars, no phone service. It wasn’t like any Heaven he had ever seen before, but he couldn’t rule that out completely. When the road he found his mother on led them directly to his childhood home, Dean realized that they’d been thrown into some sort of idyllic construct that was based, from what he could tell, on thoughts and images he has held in his mind since he was a boy. The house, the kitchen, the garden - all of it clean and undamaged, everything as it was before that night. And none of it real.

Except for Mary Winchester. Mary Winchester was real.

It wasn’t until he woke up in a low-rent motel room thirty miles outside of Lebanon, Kansas and checked the time on his phone that he learned that it had only been eight hours. Eight hours since he’d left Sam and Castiel at the cemetery with the King of Hell and his witch of a mother. Eight hours since he’d filled his belly full of soul bomb, determined to save the universe by killing God’s sister before the sun called it quits.

Dean chuckles out loud at how ludicrous it all sounds. Throw in a few sharks and you’ve got the makings of one of those low budget, made-for-tv disaster movies. At least he can joke about it. It’s all behind them and the world is safe. For now.

Fuck his life.

Sam’s phone goes straight to voicemail. No big deal. Charging his phone was probably the last thing on Sam’s mind. When he calls Castiel and the same thing happens, he worries, has to remind himself that the two men are more than capable of handling themselves.

Still, he wastes no time in hitching a ride back to Lebanon. From the outside of the bunker, nothing looks out of place, but he enters quietly and carefully. He reaches into the waistband of his pants for his pistol and comes back empty handed. He forgot that he doesn’t have a weapon on him. He’d left them all in Baby's trunk, figured he wouldn't be needing them where he was headed.

He doesn’t notice the blood sigil on the concrete jamb until he reaches the doorway to the library.

“Castiel!” It’s counterintuitive to yell out like that when he doesn’t know what he might be facing, but he does it anyway as he moves into the library, scanning the area around him. “Sam? Cas?”

He spots Sam’s phone on Sam’s usual table, his laptop next to it, open and in use, and the tension in his bones eases up a little bit. They’re probably fine. Maybe Castiel drew the sigil as a safeguard, to be ready in case Lucifer was alive and returned to the bunker from wherever Amara sent him.

“Dean?”

Dean swings around when he hears Sam’s voice behind him. Sam gawks at him from the bottom of the library steps before he bounces up all three at once and rushes to him. He gathers Dean up in his long arms. “You’re alive? I can’t believe you’re alive! How are you even alive?”

“That’s a long and very weird story. Let’s just say we have some competition for the most screwed up siblings in existence.” Dean steps back when Sam releases him, glances once more around the room. “Where’s Cas? I expected him to be here with you. He told me he would stick--”

Dean snaps his mouth shut when Sam frowns and starts rubbing the back of his neck. “Wait.” He points to the rune on the wall. “Please tell me you didn’t use that to ditch him. So help me--”

“God, no, Dean, of course not. I would never--”

“Good. Where is the little nerd? I’ve gotta talk to him. Asap.”

“I said _I_ didn't do it, but someone was waiting for us when we got back here.” Sam walks over to the table. “I'm sorry. We didn’t have a chance, and he’s gone. But I’ve got the program up and running. I'm trying to get some kind of location from his phone, but so far nothing.”

Dean slams his fist on the table. “Son of a bitch! He could be _anywhere_! What the hell happened while I was gone? Who did this and where is he now?”

“The same person who did this.” Sam holds up his phone, so Dean can see not only its shattered screen but also exactly what caused the damage to it. “She knew about Cas, because she expelled him as soon as we walked in. Then I pulled my phone out of my pocket, and she shot it right out of my hand. I’ve got her in the dungeon.”

Dean takes a few steps toward the hallway that leads to the archive room-slash-dungeon. “Good. I’m gonna go find out--” he stops, turns back around. “She?”

“There’s something else you should know.” Sam clears his throat. “The Men of Letters sent her.”

“What do you mean? She’s what, a chick of letters or something?”

“I think, maybe, the term is _person_ of letters.”

“She blew Cas to who the fuck knows where, she put a bullet through your phone, and you’re worried about _offending_ her?” Dean rolls his eyes at his always PC brother. “I’m going to go have a little chat with Annie Oakley and find out what it is that they want.”

“She told me what they want.”

Dean waits for Sam to continue. He doesn’t, and when it’s obvious that he isn’t going to, Dean throws up his hands. “Gonna share with the class?”

Sam swallows thickly. “Dean, they want _us._ ”

“They want us to do what?”

“She said she was sent by the London chapter to… take us in.”

That doesn’t make sense. They’re on the same side for crissakes. “Take us _in_? Do they know we’re legacies? Do they know we just saved the goddamned world?”

“I think so. She said,” Sam hesitates, lowers his voice along with his eyes. “She said we do more harm than good.”

That knocks Dean in the gut, and one look at Sam’s face tells him it hits him the same way. It’s the issue Dean’s been grappling with for some time now. Well, one of the issues, anyway.

“She called me a jumped-up hunter playing with things I don’t understand.”

There’s a possibility that she’s right about the other thing, but she’s wrong about Sam. So wrong it almost makes him laugh.

“Well she can go straight to hell!” It’s a figure of speech, but Dean has the connections to actually make that happen, if he was so inclined. He spins back around, intent on explaining just that to their unwelcome guest.

“No, don’t!” Sam calls after him. “She thinks you’re dead. Maybe we should just let them keep thinking that.”

That’s not a bad idea. He turns around, nods his agreement.

“What do you want to do now?” Sam asks.

“I want… “ Dean scrubs his hand over his mouth and jaw. He needs to shave, but can't be bothered. He doesn't have time for shaving or dealing with some judgmental, trigger-happy, bitch of letters from across the pond. “I want to find Cas.”

Sam gestures toward his computer. “I’m working on it.”

“No,” Dean explains further. “I’m going to leave here and look for him.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Everywhere. I’m gonna start looking and I’m not gonna stop until I find him. You in?”

“Yes. Of course. But what do we do with the woman in our dungeon?”

Dean doesn’t hesitate. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. We just… leave her here.”

“Leave her? Alone in the bunker? With all of our... Wait. Are you talking about leaving the bunker for good?”

“It’s time, don’t you think? They know about it, about us, and apparently they don’t like us, Sam. We both know they’re on their way here right now, anyway.” Dean shrugs. “It belongs to them, not us. They want us gone, then we’ll get gone. Let’s pack up our things and go find Cas.”

Dean’s expecting some resistance, but that’s not what he gets. “Okay.” Sam looks around the room, closes his laptop. “I can be ready in twenty.”

______________________________

 

They drive in silence for hours. Dean’s eyes are trained on the road, masking the complicated thought processes going on inside his head, while Sam concentrates on his computer. Sam is the first to finally speak.

“Will you miss it? The bunker?”

“Why would I? The Impala is our real home, remember? You said it yourself.”

“The Impala is the only home _I_ ever knew. Growing up, it’s the place I always felt safest. _You_ have other memories, Dean, different ideas of home.”

Dean thinks about that for a few seconds. “I’ll miss the kitchen. I’ll miss my awesome mattress. Oh, and the water pressure. Mark my words, we will never find water pressure like that again.”

Sam grins. “What about the robe?”

Dean smiles for the first time since they left their once safe place. “Oh, I _took_ the robe.”

Sam laughs. “Good for you.”

They fall silent again, until Sam abruptly changes the subject. “I don’t think she would have hurt me.” .

Sam sedated their prisoner before he untied her and left her in the unlocked room. By the time she wakes up, they’ll be three states away.

“If she’d wanted to shoot me, she could have.”

“Yeah, she’s a real peach. Let’s ask Cas what he thinks about that.”

“I agree that using the sigil on Cas was a shitty thing to do, but to be fair, he _was_ Satan up until a few hours earlier.”

Dean shoots Sam a dirty sideways look, and Sam holds up his hands in submission. “You weren’t there Dean. When I told her you were dead, she seemed kind of, I don’t know, sad.”

“What’s your point?”

“I’m just saying that I don’t think she’s the bad guy.”

“Right,” Dean says. “So then, what does that make us?”

______________________________

 

“So it was Mom? Our real mom?”

They’ve stopped for dinner at some bar-b-que place along the road. Dean wanted to keep driving and eat in the car in order to put as much distance as possible between them and anyone who might be after them, but Sam convinced him that they needed to stretch their legs.

“Yeah. It was her.” Dean sips from his beer. He’s already filled Sam in on everything that happened in the garden with Amara and Chuck. “At first, I didn’t believe it, and neither did she. But she hugged me, and, I don’t know, we just _knew_.”

“She recognized you?”

“Well, I called her Mom, so I’m betting that pretty much narrowed it down for her.”

“Dean,” Sam gently chides.

Dean sighs, exaggerated and noisy. “No, she didn’t know who I was at first. But once I got closer, she figured it out. She said it was my eyes, that she'd always know my eyes.”

Sam nods, listening.

“I wish you could’ve been there, Sammy. I wish you could’ve seen her.” Dean recalls how even though she’d been taken from him when he was so young, it all came back to him the minute he touched her, how he had, for a moment, become that little boy she’d left behind. “She was exactly how I remember her.”

“Yeah?”

“They should’ve zapped us both out there. If it was some kind of reward, they should’ve given it to both of us.”

"I don’t know.” Sam looks down at the bottle in his hands, shrugs. “I mean, sure, it would’ve been nice to meet her, spend some time with her, get to know her. But you … _you_ needed that. Not me.”

“Of course you need it. You told me that you have dreams about Mom all the time.”

“I do, but that’s different. My dreams are made up. They’re fantasy, and I recognize that. But if it was ever _real_ , any of it, even for a short time, it would only make me miss something that I don’t. Leave a hole where there never was one.”

“What are you talking about? You miss Mom.”

“No, Dean, I don’t. Not really. You can’t miss what you never had.” Sam scratches at the beer label with his fingernails. “But I always had you. And honestly? _My_ reward is sitting right here in front of me.”

“You’re right.” Dean holds up his bottle and examines it. “This beer sure is hitting the spot, ain’t it?”

“I didn’t mean the beer.”

Dean flaps his hand at his brother. “I know what you meant. Just… shut up.”

Sam grins, catches Dean’s eye before Dean looks away. “So what did you two do?”

“We did a lot of talking.”

“About what?”

Dean rolls his shoulders, takes another pull from his beer. It gives him time to choose his words. “Well, a lot about you.” It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth. “She wanted to know everything, so I had to give her the bad news about your face.”

Sam snorts. “Very funny.” He guzzles what’s left of his beer and plunks the empty bottle onto the table. “You don’t have to talk about it. I mean, I get it. But if you ever want to… ”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Sam is always gentle with him, never pushes, and right now he’s particularly grateful for that. If the tables were turned, Dean wouldn’t let Sam rest until he gave up every detail. “Whatever you say, Dr. Phil.”

______________________________

 

He’s never been to this motel before, but everything about it is familiar. The fake wood-paneled walls, the horribly stained carpet, the wobbly table and chairs placed in front of the one and only window. Sam’s sitting at it now, his eyes glued to the screen of his computer.

“Anything?” Dean asks.

“No.”

Dean plops down on the bed nearest to the door. He’d already claimed it with his duffle bag when they first got there, before he went out for more food. He pulls a paper-covered burger out of the greasy sack in his hands, tosses the bag onto the table.

Sam makes a face at the bag. “I can’t believe you’re still hungry. That thing is going to keep you up all night.”

Dean shrugs, sinks his teeth into the burger, speaks and chews at the same time. “I just got off the phone with Cesar.”

“Cesar? As in Jesse and Cesar? Are they okay? Did he call, or… ?”

Dean shakes his head, waits until he swallows his food to respond. “Nah. I called him, and they’re fine. I know they’re officially retired, but they still have more contact with other hunters than we do. Plus we need to lay low for a while, and I wanted to find out if they’d seen or heard anything about Cas.”

“Cas?” Sam’s brows arch up. “Did you tell him what Cas is? Or anything else?”

“You mean did I tell him he’s an angel? No. But he did ask me if I knew anything about the sun situation, so I let him know that we were aware of it and that it’s over and done. Nothing for them to worry about.”

Sam shakes his head, claps his hands together. “All righty then.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“What is it, Sam?”

“I thought you didn’t want to get them involved in any of our messes. We purposely didn’t ask for their help, even though we desperately needed it, because they were getting out of the game. And then you call Cesar to ask for their help with Cas? Someone he’s never even heard of before?”

Dean clears his throat. “He’s heard of him,” he mumbles.

“What?”

“I said he’s heard of him. He knows who Cas is.”

Sam crosses his arms. “How?”

“I may have mentioned him in the car, when we were on our way back to the woods. You were with Jesse.” Dean shoves the rest of the burger in his mouth, wads up the wrapper and tosses it into a trash can by the table.

“Oh.” Sam turns in his chair, faces Dean. “What did you tell him?”

“I didn’t tell him about Lucifer, if that’s what you’re worried about. I didn’t tell him anything other than that Cas was a hunter and a close friend of mine, and that we were looking for him because he was in trouble.”

“A close friend of _yours_?”

“Of _ours._ ”

Sam sighs. “And that’s it?”

“Basically.”

“So have they heard anything?”

“No. But they’re going to keep their ears on it, just in case."

Sam nods. “Okay. I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

“That’s what _she_ said.”

Dean grins, waits for Sam to laugh at his joke, but he doesn’t. Instead he rolls his eyes, feigns disapproval.

“By the way, we’re invited to the ranch. Maybe you, me, and Cas can take a trip to New Mexico as soon as we… .” He cuts himself off when he yawns.

“You should get some sleep.” Sam gives him one of those deeply concerned looks that usually irks the hell out of him, but somehow, this time it doesn’t.

Dean fluffs his pillows, throws his feet up onto the bed, lays his head back. His eyes aren't closed for more than a minute when he hears a familiar beep. One, followed by another, then another. He jumps up.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“Yes it is! It is!” Sam stares at the computer screen in wide-eyed disbelief. Dean scurries behind him so he can see whatever it is that Sam can see, but by the time he gets there, the pinging stops.

“Shit!” Dean pounds his fist against the wall, but Sam’s excitement is undeterred.

“It’s gone now, but it was here.” Sam points to the screen and gulps. “Dean, I think we just found Cas.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Found” can’t possibly be the right word.

Dean’s going to have to buy Sam a dictionary, or an app, or whatever it is the kids are using these days, because as far as Dean’s concerned, a blip on a map on a screen on a computer isn’t exactly _finding_ Castiel.

He will concede, however, that it’s more than they had before.

Sam surmises, with some glee, that Castiel’s phone is “somewhere in Ireland.” Dean winces. He can’t understand why Sam is so happy when in all likelihood, Castiel is alone on a whole other continent. Assuming that he’s landed in the same place as his cell phone. He and Sam don’t know much about angel banishing, especially the physicality of it.

“It’s closer than Perth,” Sam points out. So there’s that.

Dean tries immediately to call Castiel, but again he gets his voice message before it ever rings.

“Eileen.” Sam blurts out when Dean starts scratching his head and pacing from wall to wall in the small room. Sam’s face lights up when he says the name. “We should get in touch with Eileen Leahy.”

“The banshee hunter?” Dean asks. Mildred’s friend, he thinks. He has a soft spot for Mildred, the fiery woman with good taste in men who spoke her mind and read him like a large print Reader’s Digest condensed book. “Oh, right. Eileen. She’s an Irishman. Or is it person of Irish?” Dean pauses for Sam’s approval, which doesn’t come. “Anyway, good idea. Let’s call her.”

“We can’t call her,” Sam says, then chuckles to himself. “I mean, we can call her, but she won’t answer.”

“Because she’s deaf?” Dean laughs too, because it’s something _he_ would say, which, he realizes quickly, Sam would _not_ see the humor in.  He corrects himself, shakes a stern finger at Sam, tries to look personally offended. “Really, Sam?”

“No, I’m not, I wasn’t… it’s something she said to me when--” Sam gives up, drops his chin and doesn’t bother to finish. “It’s a joke. Anyway, I’m going to text her.”

“Okay. Sounds good.”

Sam stands and holds out his hand, palm up. “I need your phone.”

“But I don’t have her number.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Eileen doesn’t work with other hunters. Sam had told him that on the way back to the bunker, so there’s no one they can call to get her number. Unless-- “Wait! Do you have her number _memorized_?”

“I said don’t worry about it.” Sam waves him off.

“You _do,_ ” Dean accuses, bites back a grin. “You have her number memorized. And you have her number memorized because you _memorized_ it.”

Sam scoffs. “Great work, detective.”

“Have you been texting her?”

Sam's eyes dart around the room.  He crosses his arms in front of him.

“You have!” Dean continues to tease, pokes Sam on the chest. “You’ve been texting her. You have her number memorized, and you’ve been texting her.”

“So?”

“So you like her.”

“Yes. I do. I like the kind, intelligent hunter who saved your ass from a banshee. So shoot me.”

“You _like_ like her.”

“I’m not twelve, Dean. Stop it.”

Smirking, Dean holds up his phone. Sam snatches it roughly from his hand, mumbles something about getting his own replacement phone tomorrow, then marches over to his bed and sits on the edge of it, as far away from Dean as he can possibly get.

Dean pretends to give him some privacy. He sits in front of Sam's computer, let's his fingers play on the keyboard while he watches his brother out of the corner of his eye.

Sam hunches over the phone he has clutched in his hand, smiling, dipping his head, every now and then giggling as if he’s having a conversation with someone actually in the room. Sam chews on his bottom lip, tucks loose strands of shaggy hair behind his ears. It’s cute, for a while, but it goes on for much too long, and Dean’s an impatient man.

“Sam. Anything?” Dean throws both hands up.

Sam gestures for him to wait by holding up his finger, then taps a few more times on the phone. When he’s done, he tosses it on the bed. “She hasn’t heard anything, but she’s offered to help us any way she can.”

“Well of course she hasn’t heard any--”

A warning glare from Sam shuts him up. Dean will never understand when it is and isn’t okay to joke around with his brother.

“That’s it? It took fifteen minutes for that?”

“It wasn’t even ten minutes and yes. Conversations take a little longer when you’re typing them out,” Sam reprimands. “And she offered to meet us at the airport in Shannon whenever we’re ready, help us look for Cas. That is, assuming we’re going to Ireland.”

There’s no question in Dean’s mind. “Oh, we’re _going_ to Ireland.”

“On a plane?”

“You know another way?  'Cause if you do, I’m all ears.”

It’s a test, of sorts. This would normally be the point when one of them suggests they seek out assistance from Crowley, or Rowena, or some other unsavory character that they should be hunting instead. They’d tell themselves it was a last resort, convince each other that there was no other way, but in truth, it all became very convenient. It had been gnawing at him lately, more than ever before, how they were able to find a way to justify their own actions while condemning the same behavior in others. Those days are over for Dean. He can’t do it anymore. He doesn’t want to.

Sam’s thinking about it. He takes the better part of a minute before his shoulders slump and he shakes his head no. Good. Dean’s relieved that so far, he and Sam seem to be on the same page.

“I’ll book us a flight,” Sam offers, then shuffles over to his computer on the table and does just that while Dean showers, shaves, and brushes his teeth. He vacates the bathroom so Sam can do the same, settles in an upright position on his bed and waits.

“So, have you been talking to her regularly?” Dean asks as soon as Sam shuts off the lamp between them and crawls under the covers of the double bed beside his. “Have you kept in touch since the retirement home?”

“Off and on.” Sam rolls onto his side, away from Dean.

“When was the last time you talked to her? I mean, before tonight?”

“Why does it matter, Dean?” Sam sounds annoyed, or tired, or both.

“It doesn’t matter, I was just wondering… Does she know about Amara and Chuck and, you know, the almost end of the world?”

Dean can’t see much of Sam in the dark room, but he can hear the rustle of the stiff, motel covers as Sam turns to face him. “Not really. I did text her then, though. I guess I wanted to say goodbye without saying goodbye. You were on the beer run with Cas.”

“That was a disaster,” Dean moans, under his breath, but Sam hears him.

“Your beer run? What happened?”

Dean shrugs. He didn’t mean to say that out loud, but Sam’s being honest with him, and for once it wouldn’t hurt him to return the favor. Besides, he made a promise to his Mom that he has every intention of keeping. “I wanted to tell him a few things. I’ve been such a crappy friend to him for so long now, we both have, really, and I wanted him to know… I’m not exactly sure what I wanted him to know, but it definitely wasn’t whatever the hell I said.”

“What do you mean?”

“His face. You should have seen his face. I was trying to set things right between us, at least as much as I could at the time, considering the circumstances, but he looked like I -- I don’t know.”

Sam pulls himself up. “What did you say to him?”

“I told him that he was right to let Lucifer in. I told him he was our best friend, that he was our brother.”

“And is that really how you feel?”

Deans shakes his head, eyes wide.  “Are you kidding me? Letting Lucifer possess him was a bonehead move! Between the Devil and the Darkness, it's a frigging miracle he's alive. So no, that's not how I really feel. He said it was a stupid decision on his part and he was right, but he already felt like shit about it and I wasn’t gonna make him feel worse two minutes before lights out.”

“I agree. But that’s not what I was referring to.”

“What were you…? Oh,” Dean says, then lowers his voice. “Cas is family. You know that.”

“I _do_ know that. And he’s for sure a brother _to me_ , you were definitely right about that. But it’s always been… I don’t know, _different_ between you and him.”

Dean fidgets with the blanket beneath him.  Sam’s right, of course, and Dean's glad that Sam can't see his face.  “He offered to come with me. When I was going to kamikaze Amara, he wanted to come with me.  So I wouldn’t have to die alone.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Yeah, that’s just like him, isn’t it?” Dean’s quiet for several seconds, then mutters, “I shouldn’t have lied to him.”

“Dean, if you want to talk--”

“I know, and I appreciate that Sam. But not tonight.” Dean pushes himself down on the bed and pulls the cover over his shoulders. “We’d better get some rest. We have a plane to catch not enough hours from now.”

“ _Planes_ ,” Sam corrects. “We’d have to drive too far to catch a nonstop, so we ended up with a connecting flight. Sorry.”

Dean grumbles. “Even better.”

______________________________

 

Dean shovels forkfuls of pancake into his mouth while listening to Sam, nerd that he is, jabber on about their schedule in some secret language that Dean’s not privy to. Not that he’s remotely interested, anyway.

“If we’d driven to ORD we could’ve taken a direct flight to SNN. But it would have added eight maybe nine hours to the trip and we’ve already lost some time picking up my new phone. Since we want to get there as fast as possible, we’re gonna fly out of MSP to EWR, then depart from EWR to SNN with what amounts to no layover, and arrive--”

“So Sammy, when did you start talking like an air traffic controller?”

Sam laughs. “You mean why do I know all the airport codes?”

“Sure. That.”

Sam wipes his mouth with his napkin, places it on his empty plate and pushes it aside. “I learned them when I used to plan trips for us. When I was a kid, and you and Dad were away.”

“Trips? For me, you, and Dad?”

“Of the non-hunting variety. To places all over the world,” Sam discloses. “It was just a game. It passed the time and kept my mind off of what you and Dad were out there doing. We didn’t have a computer back then, so it wasn’t as easy as it is now. Sometimes Sully helped.“

Although he met Sam’s not-so-imaginary friend Sully not long ago, this is the first Dean’s heard about their vacation planning activities. “Sully, huh? I had no idea you did that.”

“I never told you. Or Dad. Or anyone, really. I threw everything away, my notes and itineraries, and forgot all about it once I started hunting with you and Dad. But…”

“But what?”

Sam shrugs. “I started doing it again. Recently. Online. I’ve got about six different expired sets of vacation plans saved in a folder on my computer. And the airport codes, they all came back to me.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say. The questions Sam had been asking him lately about settling down and leaving the life make a lot more sense now.

Sam’s new phone chimes, signaling an incoming text message from Eileen. Sam glances at it, reads it quickly, and Dean can tell right away that Sam thinks it’s good news.

“What? What is it?”

“There’s a woman in Dingle who--” Sam detects the confusion on Dean’s face and answers Dean’s questions before they are ever asked. “Dingle is a town in Ireland. And yes, that’s really the name of the town. So this woman, in Dingle, she claims that she was praying, asking for God’s help with her terminally ill husband, when an angel appeared before her.”

“Okay.” Dean’s skeptical. Mankind has been seeing angels where there are none ever since it got wind of their existence. “People who believe in those kinds of things claim to see angels all the time. Especially the desperate ones,” Dean argues. “Doesn’t mean it’s Cas.”

“True.” Sam smirks. “But those angels don’t usually crash through the roof of an old barn wearing a trench coat and sensible shoes.”

It’s a good thing Dean is already sitting down. “Son of a bitch! We found Cas.”

______________________________

 

Dean’s happy about the good news, optimistic and light on his feet as they board the first flight. He’s anxious to get to their destination, to bring Cas home and this time, really make things right.

“You good?” Sam checks on him once they’re buckled in.

“Me? I’m good. I’m great.”

Staying great proves to be more difficult. The take-off is rough. He remains strapped in and on the edge of his seat the entire time. It’s too early to drink, and he’s not sure that his stomach would keep it down anyway. By the time they land in New Jersey a little over two and a half hours later, he’s pale and nauseous.

“Dean, are you sure you can do this?” Sam double checks as they buckle into their seats on the next plane. “I can always go myself and get him and bring him back. Assuming that he _is_ the Dingle Angel.”

“No!” Sam’s got to be kidding. Surely he knows that staying behind is not an option for Dean. They haven’t even confirmed that the Dingle Angel is Castiel, let alone what his condition is, physical or otherwise.

The only thing Dean finds more ridiculous than Sam’s question is the fact that, considering all the stomach-churning things that Dean actually has faced, _this airplane,_ this metal tube carrying around two hundred tons of combustible jet fuel, may be the one he never conquers. He can’t shoot, stab, stake, burn or hex his way out of this, but he does have a plan.

“I told you, I’m good.” Dean pulls a single white pill from his shirt pocket, shows it to Sam. “I brought along a capsule of courage.”

“What is that?”

Dean pops it in his mouth and swallows it dry. “A sleeping pill. In a few minutes, I’ll be out like a light.”

Take-off on this larger plane is smooth. Color returns to his face and he begins to relax. He sips on a bottle of water while he waits for the medication to kick in. Sam sits at the window seat beside him, fills him in on Eileen’s progress in her attempts to verify whether or not the Dingle Angel is the Winchesters’ Angel.

“Remember Mildred?” Dean asks.

“Mildred who was all over you like mustard on a hot dog?”

Dean shoots Sam a look. “Am I the hot dog in this analogy?”

“Yes you are," Sam snickers. "Sweet lady though. Funny, full of life, despite her lousy taste in men. It’s lucky for her that you're the one who got away.”

“Well in the end, _she_ rejected _me_ ,” Dean tells him. “So technically, _she’s_ the one who got away.”

“Rejected you?”

“She told me that it would never work out between us because I was pining for somebody else.”

“Pining?”

“That’s the word she used.”

Sam nods in approval.  “It’s… it’s a great word.”

“Do you think it’s possible she meant _something_ else? Like a little R and R, or, you know, something other than hunting?”

Sam considers it, shrugs. “Maybe. But she didn’t say _something_. She said _somebody._ ”

“Yeah. That’s what Mom said.” Dean yawns.

“You discussed it with Mom?”

“Yep.”

“It must’ve gotten you thinking, then.” Sam asks carefully. “What Mildred said.”

“Yep.” Dean blinks slowly, his eyelids suddenly too heavy. “You know, at first, when she said it, I thought she meant Amara, and it scared the crap out of me.”

“No way,” Sam is adamant. “You never _pined_ for Amara. You had some kind of… connection… that wasn’t your choice. It was forced on you, and you fought against it, hard, and every step of the way. That’s not _pining_. Not by any definition.”

“Mmm hmm.” Dean closes his eyes, mumbles his words. “It hit me. I couldn’t sleep… then boom...”

“What hit you? You mean you figured out who she meant?”

Dean draws in a loud, labored breath, moves his lips but no sound comes out.

Sam shakes Dean's shoulder. “Dean? Who? Who were you really…?”

Sam’s voice fades away as Dean’s head lolls onto his shoulder and his entire body slips into a deep, drug-driven sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Time flies when you’re in a chemically induced state of suspended consciousness.

Dean sleeps through the remaining six hours of the flight, blissfully unaware of where he is until Sam shakes him awake. Despite the sleep, he’s not rested, and he doesn’t recall any dreams. He wishes he had, though. Castiel might be able to give him his location through his dreams. He’s done it before.

“It was probably because of that pill you took,” Sam explains after Dean complains to him. “I looked it up while you were out. Those things will put you out, but they mess with your REM sleep, which is generally when you dream.”

“Thank you, Mr. Encylopedia.”

Sam scooches past his brother into the center aisle, stretches his long limbs. “Well, it got you through the flight. But even if you had dreamed, I don’t think Cas would even try to walk it. He has no idea that you’re alive.”

Damn it. Leave it to Sam to point out the glitch in Dean’s plan. He’d forgotten about that not-so-insignificant fact after the unplanned ditching of the bunker.

“Unless you’ve prayed to him,” Sam offers. “Have you prayed to him?”

Dean unbuckles his seatbelt and stands up. They’re in the back, and this plane is emptying out much too slowly. “Nah. I stopped doing that.”

Sam’s brows go up. “Really? Any particular reason?”

“Always seemed to bite me in the ass.”

“How’s that?” Sam opens the overhead compartment and retrieves his jacket and their duffel bags, tosses them onto their seats.

“He wasn’t answering, mostly. And then I’d start thinking about _why_ he wasn’t answering, and that never ended well.” Dean slings his bag over one shoulder. “So I just stopped. Cold turkey.”

“That must’ve been hard for you.”

“Nah. Cas is much better with the phone these days, so it’s fine. Although I swear as soon as we find him, I’m going to delete all of those goddamned yellow faces from his phone.”

“The emojis?” Sam grins fondly. “They’re his favorite.”

“You’re telling me.”

Sam pulls his jacket on. “Well I _did_ pray to him, or tried to anyway.”

“When?”

“After I got the situation with Lady Bevell under control.”

“ _Lady?_ Wait. Are you telling me--” Dean stops, waits for the last few passengers from across the aisle clear out. “Are you saying that the dame in the dungeon is actually a lady?”

“Yep. It checks out too. She’s the daughter of an earl. I couldn’t find any obvious affiliation with the Men of Letters.”

“Wouldn’t be much of a secret society if you had,” Dean points out.

Sam snorts. “True. Anyway, it was before you got back to the bunker. I prayed to tell him I was okay and hoping he could let me know where he was. Honestly, I almost couldn’t do it either, considering my recent track record with prayers.”

“So he’s not answering?”

“No. But there could be a very good reason.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s chin drops. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

Sam clasps Dean’s shoulder with one hand. “Eileen’s waiting for us on the other side of customs. We’re going to eat, then drive directly to Dingle. It takes a few hours, but due to the time difference, it'll be morning by the time we get there. She’s already set us up with some rooms there, so we can shower and change into fresh clothes and get right to work looking for Cas. Sound good?”

Dean nods. He’s grateful that Sam has everything worked out. He’s too tired to factor in things like showers, food, and time zones. “So, when you see her, you’re gonna what? Shake her hand? Hug her?” Dean asks.

“Who? Eileen?”

“Or are you just gonna slide right into first base with a kiss.”

“Shut up, Dean.” Sam rolls his eyes.

“I recommend the last one. No bullshit. Straight and to the point.” Dean winks.

“Is that so? Because being straight and to the point’s been working so well for you?”

Damn it. He hates when Sam manages to throw his harmless teasing right back in his face.

“And that was a piss poor baseball analogy,” Sam goes on. “You don’t _slide_ into first base. Do you know _anything_ about baseball?”

“Sure I do. Nine innings, world series, Babe Ruth. Should I go on?”  How the hell did he end up on the defensive end of this conversation?

Sam shakes his head. “Look, I just want you to take it easy with her, okay? You were right, I do like her. She’s kind of a loner, and I don’t want you to scare her off.”

“You like her like her?”

“Dean,” Sam warns.

“Okay, okay. Got it. I’ll behave. Don’t worry, Sammy, I like her too. She’s a good hunter. Focused. Smart.”

“Thank you, Dean.”

“And of course, any friend of Mildred’s is a friend of mine.”

______________________________

 

There’s definitely an angel-sized hole in the roof of the small, stone barn in Dingle.

“It’s fresh.” Sam announces his conclusion after examining the various chunks and splinters of wood on the hay covered floor of the old structure. He looks up at Dean and Eileen from his crouched position, then at the damaged planks angled downward from the opening above them. “And it came in from the outside.”

“Where is he?” Dean demands. “Where did he go?”

“I’ve no idea who you’re referring to.” Margaret Walsh crosses her arms and sighs loudly.

“I’m ‘referring to’ the guy who fell through your roof. The angel sent to you when you were praying. The one with dark hair and blue eyes.”

“Mr…. Van Zant, is it?” The woman is not at all intimidated by Dean’s tough, no-nonsense demeanor. “I’ve already stated quite clearly to you and your associates, there was never any man, and most assuredly, no angel.”

Dean points up at the damaged roof. “Then how do you explain that?”

“A bird made that hole.”

“A bird.” Dean rubs at one eyebrow. “You’re saying that a bird did _that_?”

“‘Twas a _grand_ bird.”

The tall, lanky red-haired young man who’s been standing silently beside his mother sniggers at her remark, then covers his mouth with his hand. Margaret side-eyes him. “Mind yourself, Domnall.”

“Mrs. Walsh, we only want to help him.” Eileen tries to persuade the woman. “These two men are his friends.”

Sam rises to his feet. “We came all the way from America to find him. Please, anything you can tell us, anything at all, would be greatly appreciated.”

“As we told the guards who came by yesterday, there is no one here besides our family. So please go away and leave us alone. We don’t know anything.”

Dean pushes his brows together. “Guards?”

“Police,” Eileen explains.

“We’re not police,” Dean says. “Far from it.”

Margaret doesn’t look convinced.

“Mrs. Walsh, how is your husband?” Sam asks.

She uncrosses her arms, visibly softens at Sam’s sincerity. “Thomas is not well,” she says.

“Would it be possible to talk to him? Just briefly?”

Margaret exchanges glances with her son. “Come with me. I’ll take you to Himself.”

They follow her out of the barn and into the main residence a couple hundred feet away. It’s modest, but clean and neat. She gestures for her son to stay behind and leads her visitors through the kitchen to a room on the other side of the house. She taps her finger against her lips and opens the door slowly.

Inside, a man lies on a hospital bed, asleep. His lips are pale, his skin tinted a sickly gray. There is a tank beside the bed, connected to tubes that feed oxygen to him through his nose. On the other side of the bed an IV stand holds a liquid filled bag, attached by needle to his arm.

“Now I ask you, misters, does it look to you like an _angel_ has been anywhere near this place?”

______________________________

 

Dean fingers the worn edges of the faded photograph, tries to flatten them. He wonders where it’s been until now, and how he was able to keep it, like some kind of supernatural souvenir of the time he’d been gifted with his mother. He never expected it would still be in his wallet when he woke up in the strange motel room, but he’s pleased that it was.

“Whatcha got there?” Sam slides onto the barstool next to him, leans over him to try to get a better look.

“Nothing.” Dean tucks the picture back into his billfold and slips it into his jacket pocket. “Find anything?”

After leaving the Walsh’s farm empty-handed, they’d separated for their door-to-door canvass of the rest of the town in the hopes of covering as much ground as they could as quickly as possible.

Sam sits back, tests the swivel of his chair while he scans the room for anything suspicious. “No. You?”

“Nada.” Dean bends forward, gets the bartender’s attention long enough to order two beers with his fingers.

“Eileen’s checking with the cops. She should be here any minute now. This place was a good choice, by the way.”

Dean agrees with a nod. Nearly every visible surface of the pub is clad with rich, heavily grained wood. It’s dark, but warm, with cliche-like authenticity. The wall behind the bar is home to at least a hundred bottles of liquor, yet it’s an unmistakable musk of beer that permeates the room. Under any other circumstances, Dean would be having himself a helluva good time here, enjoying pints of Guinness, hustling darts with the locals.

“Thanks.” Sam accepts his glass from the bartender and takes a long sip. “I’m beginning to question whether Cas was ever here at all.”

“Huh?” 

“I'm just saying that maybe we should be considering the possibility that the Dingle Angel really is nothing more than a giant bird that took a nosedive through the roof of a two-century old, structurally unsound barn.”

Dean frowns. “Did you see any feathers?”

“No. But…”

“But what? Birds have _feathers,_ Sam. And they sure as hell don’t wear trench coats.”

Sam scoops up a fistful of nuts from a nearby bowl, tosses a few into his mouth. “I know, but if Cas had been there, don’t you think he would have cured Thomas Walsh? I mean, healing people, that’s kind of Cas’s thing.”

Dean chews on his bottom lip. Sam has a point, and Dean had purposely ignored that one, very obvious fact because it means one of two things, neither of which Dean really wants to consider.

“Unless, he _couldn’t_ heal him, for some reason,” Sam adds.

“He was here,” Dean says. “I can’t really explain, but I _feel_ it. I don’t know if it’s that damn profound bond he used to talk about, or something else, but I’m not wrong about this, Sam. You’ve gotta believe me. I’m not wrong.”

“I believe you.” Sam looks at him the way he does when he wants to bring up a subject Dean would rather not talk about. “Can I ask you something?”

“Is there a way I can stop you?”

“It’s about Mom.”

That’s not what Dean was expecting. “Sure. Go ahead.”

“Is she… with Dad? I mean, in Heaven. Assuming that’s where she is. Do she and Dad share heavens?”

Dean leans forward on the counter, his mouth pulls up on one side. That was one of the first questions he'd asked Mary, once they were both satisfied, after a series of tests, that the other was real. “She didn’t have any memories of anything from the night of the fire on,” Dean says. “The last thing she remembered was checking on us in bed, then going to bed by herself and leaving Dad downstairs watching TV.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “And she was not at all happy when she found out what we’ve been doing for the last thirty plus years.”

Sam nods. “Good. I’m not sure why, but that’s comforting, in a way.”

“She had some choice words about how we were raised, although she wasn’t completely surprised. I’m not sure if they’re together in Heaven or not, but if they are, I feel pretty sorry for him right about now.”

Sam laughs.

“She loves us,” Dean tells Sam. “I think she would have done just about anything to protect us from this life.”

“He messed up, Dean. Dad loved us too, but he messed up.”

“Yeah, he did. I realize that now. I didn’t want to see it, even when everyone else did. Bobby, Pastor Jim, Sonny - they all saw it. They all knew. Even you figured it out before I did. We were just kids, and he never should have… Like you said, he messed up with us. And I’m sorry I didn’t see it back then. I’m sorry I didn’t stop it.”

“Are you kidding me?” Sam cocks his head. “If it wasn’t for you, I never would have been able to see it either. The fact that I grew up with a mind of my own and with the confidence to want something else for myself, that’s all because of you Dean. You gave me that. You did that for me, even though there was no one there to do it for you.”

Dean looks down at his drink. “You were out, and I dragged you back into it.”

“No.” Sam shakes his head. “ _Monsters_ dragged me back into it. And I wasn’t a child anymore. I knew what I was doing, and it was _my_ decision to come back. After Jess, I needed my family, and you were there for me. I don’t regret staying, so that guilt you’ve been lugging around for so long? You’ve gotta let it go. Now’s the time, Dean. Just, let it go.”

Dean takes a minute to mull over Sam’s words. “Okay,” he says, and Dean’s almost as surprised to hear the word come out of his mouth as Sam is. It feels good though, so strangely good that he says it again. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

When Dean looks up, Sam’s staring at him again, forehead creased with concern. “We’ll find him,” he says with a familiar certainty that Dean almost resents. It’s meant as a reassurance, but it only reminds him of the last time Sam made that promise, and all the times before that.

“Did I miss something?”

Dean welcomes the interruption.

“Hey, Eileen’s back,” Sam announces, hops off of his stool at the same time. He signs something to her that makes her smile.

“It wasn’t the Garda Síochána,” she tells them both. “Whoever came around looking for your friend was definitely not police.”

“Figured as much,” Sam says. “Safe bet is on Men of Letters. No one else knows about Cas. Plus she said they’d been watching us, so… ”

“Watching us means watching Cas,” Dean finishes for him.

“They’re on a deadline, of some sort,” Eileen informs them. “The bookshop owner heard one of them mention that they were running out of time.”

“Running out of time for what?” Dean asks.

“No one seems to know. But they got here quickly, that’s for sure,” she says, then directs her next statement to Sam. “Tell me everything about this woman who tried to kidnap you.”  

Eileen and Sam sit side by side, and Dean decides that’s his cue to take off. They could use some alone time, judging by the awkward hug between them at the airport when Sam chose not to take his admittedly crappy advice.

Besides, Dean’s got something he has to do.

“I’ve already heard this story.” Dean gets up and lays one hand on Sam’s back, the other on Eileen’s. “I’m just gonna go get some fresh air while Sam fills you in.  You two crazy kids do whatever it is crazy kids do in this town. See you back at the motel.”

"Bed and breakfast," Sam corrects.

“Goodnight,” Eileen says, and Dean waves back at her as he heads toward the bar’s back door.

It’s evening time yet still daylight, but even so, the alley behind the old building is dark and not well lit. It’s damp, smells of mildew and day-old fish, but it’s private, and that’s all Dean needs it to be. He leans back against the wall, closes his eyes, and presses his palms together.

“Hey Cas. It’s me. I don’t know if you’re getting these, but if you are, then surprise! I’m alive.” Dean chuckles to himself. “I’ll tell you the whole nutty story when I see you. And I _need_ to see you. I have to know you’re okay. Me and Sam, we’re looking for you, but we’ve run into a bit of a wall here, a stone wall to be exact, so if there’s any way you could help us find you… and be, you know, _alive,_ that’d be aces.” Dean slides down the wall into a squat, lowers his voice. “Seriously, though, buddy. I’ve got some ideas. I’ve been thinking about some things, things I wanna tell you about, so you have to be alive. You’d better be alive, or so help me I will… ”

He stops speaking out loud when his eyes moisten. He presses the meat of his palms against them to keep the waterworks in check.

“You really aren’t guard, are you?”

He doesn’t recognize the voice. The brogue is thick, the tone friendly, so he stays calm, swipes one hand across his face before he looks up and sees the Walsh boy from the barn. He’s almost as tall as Dean, but a good thirty pounds lighter. The boy sticks his hands into the pockets of his tattered corduroy pants as Dean pushes himself up and appraises him.

“No. No we’re not. You’re Domnall, right?”

“Dom.”

“Okay, then, Dom. I'm sorry about your father.”

“Thanks.” Dom says. “I know it doesn’t look that way right now, but Da’s strong. He can wait. And if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll keep on waiting for as long as Mam tells him to.”

“Wait for what?”

Dom shrugs. “A miracle. From our Father in Heaven, I suppose.”

Dean doesn’t have the heart to tell him that there is no Father in Heaven, that despite having only recently returned from an extended vacation, he took off again, perhaps this time for good.

“I couldn’t help but hear you. Is that what you were you just doing? Praying to God?”

“Not to God,” Dean says. “But yeah, I was praying.”

“He’s that important to you? This man you’re looking for?”

“He is.” Dean clears his throat. Dom _wants_ to tell him something, Dean can tell. Running into Dean in this alley was no accident. “Do you know anything about him? Or about the angel some people are talking about?”

“He’s your friend?”

“Yes.” Dean pauses. He has to be as honest as possible, if he wants the kid to trust him. “No. I mean yes, he’s family. Or maybe that’s not quite… there might be... more to it.”

Dom pulls his hands out of his pockets, scratches at his soft, auburn beard which is too sparse to cover the freckles beneath it. “I don’t understand.”

How could he? Dean barely understands it himself. “That's all right. You don't really need to.”

Dom twists his mouth, grappling with what to say next. “Are you the man called Sam?” he finally asks.

The last thing Dean asked of Castiel was that he watch out for his baby brother.  Wherever Castiel is, Dean has no doubt that he’s worried sick about Sam.  Dom must have seen Castiel and spoken to him to know Sam's name. “Sam’s my brother. I’m Dean.”

“Did you say _Dean_?” Dom shakes his head, slowly backs away. “I’m sorry, I’ve made a mistake. I don’t know anything. I never should have…”

Dom takes off suddenly, sprints down the alleyway, and Dean gives chase. The kid’s fast, but Dean’s faster. Dean gets close enough to lunge forward and tackle him, taking him to the ground. Dom struggles to get away from him, but Dean’s grip on him is solid.

“Dom, stop fighting,” Dean orders. “I’m Dean Winchester. My brother Sam is in the bar with Eileen Leahy. I’m not gonna hurt you. We’re not gonna hurt you or anyone else.”

“What are you?” Dom gasps. He is out of breath from running, his eyes wide and fearful.

“Did he tell you about me?” Dean asks. “Did he tell you I was dead?”

“Let me go!”

“Well, I’m not dead. He thinks I am, but I’m not, and it’s important that I find him as soon as possible.”

Dom stops squirming against Dean and catches his breath. “Why does he think you’re dead?”

“Long story. And at some point, I might be able to tell you. But right now, I can’t. I would if I could, I swear. But I can’t.”

Dean releases Dom and stands up, reaches down and offers Dom his hand to help him up. Dom rejects it and gets up on his own, pats himself off. “Others are looking for him too.”

“Yeah, we know. We figured that out.” Dean says. “I have to get to him before they do.”

“I didn’t tell them. I didn’t tell them anything. Mam said it wouldn’t be right.”

“I think your mom and I might actually agree on something,” Dean says. “Is he all right? Is he safe?”

“He is.”

“Tell me where he is. Please, Dom.”

“I can’t do that.”

Dean closes his eyes, runs his hand through his hair.

“But I can take you to him. If you leave with me right now.” Dom points to a small blue car parked on the road.

Dean's eyes pop open. “Okay. Yes. Let’s go. I’ll go get Sam and--”

“No,” Dom says. “Just you. And you have to hand over your mobile.”

“You mean my phone? No, I’m gonna need my phone.” Dean pulls it out of his pocket. “And I’ve gotta at least let Sam and Eileen know--”

“Those are my terms. Take it or leave it.”

When Dean hesitates, Dom turns his back and begins to walk away.

“Okay fine,” Dean calls after him. So far Dom is the only one who’s willing to help him, and there’s no time for their other methods of gathering information, like surveillance, or torture. “However you want to do this, I’ll do it.”

Dom turns around and approaches with his hand out. “Give it. We can’t take any chances.”

With a heavy sigh, Dean hands over the phone, then watches in stunned silence as Dom tosses it onto the ground and stomps on it. Dean winces at the crackle of glass crushing beneath the heel of Dom’s work boot. He can safely assume that Castiel's phone met with a similar fate.

It’s been a bad few days for Winchester phones.

______________________________

 

The road they’re on is long, winding, and decidedly narrow, and Dean’s glad, for once, to not be the one behind the wheel. He doubts he could safely maneuver it. He’s too distracted to concentrate on driving on the wrong side of the road from the wrong side of the car.

He has no idea where they are. All Dean has seen is grass and sheep and hills with an occasional old stone structure. Dom is tight-lipped, has nothing more to say to Dean on any subject, so they travel in silence.  After more than an hour, they turn off of what must have been the main road, and onto a long, bumpy path. They stop outside of a lone, thatched roof cottage built a few hundred feet from the edge of a bluff. If not for the smoke wafting from the chimney, Dean would have thought the house, with its crumbling stone walls, was abandoned.

“Wait out here,” Dom says. “We don’t want to startle him.”

Despite the rumors, the kid must have no idea who Castiel really is, or what he’s capable of, and Dean’s not going to be the one to give it away. If Castiel has kept that from him, he has a reason.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll wait out here.”

Dean gets out of the car, leans back against it. Once Dom is inside and out of sight, though, he walks around to the back of the house, toward the grassy ridge above the rocky beach. Someone’s out there.  A man wearing a thick, white sweater is perched on a large boulder, his back to Dean.

He's too far away.  He wants a closer look, so he walks toward him slowly, until the man, hearing his footsteps, angles his head slightly and calls out “who’s there?”

Dean’s heart pounds when he hears the voice. “Cas!” he shouts, but it comes out shaky, muffled.

He hastens his pace. Castiel jumps up and spins around, his angel blade in hand, ready, but kept lowered by his side.

“It’s me,” Dean yells to him, tapping his own chest. “I’m not dead, buddy.  See?  I’m not dead!”

Castiel remains still for several seconds. He’s looking in the wrong direction as Dean makes his way to him, but then he moves toward Dean. His steps are small and unsure, and he doesn't get far before he catches his foot on a rock jutting out from the earth beneath him.

Dean breaks into a sprint when he sees Castiel’s body pitch forward and land face first on the sod. He drops to the ground beside him, helps him pull up and onto his knees.

“Cas! Are you okay?”

Castiel’s eyes are closed.  He tightens his grip on Dean’s arm, lifts his chin up.  “Is this a dream?”

“No, Cas. It's _me_. Look at me, buddy. Open your eyes and look at me!”

Only a trace of light is left now by the setting sun. It’s not much, but it’s enough. Castiel’s eyes open slowly, and the moment Dean glimpses a sliver of blue, he’s overwhelmed. His muscles seem to weaken, his throat clenches and burns. There are things he wants to say, things he promised himself he would tell Castiel if he ever saw him again, yet he’s unable to do anything other than hold onto his friend and _feel_.

Dean dips his head, brings his face closer to Castiel’s. Castiel still seems uncertain.  His gaze is steady, but slightly off. He’s looking at Dean, but he's not seeing him.

Dean grabs onto both of Castiel’s shoulders. “Cas, I’m right here. Look at me.”

“Dean.” There’s recognition in the way he says Dean’s name, in the upward turn of his lips as he says it again. “Dean.”

“Look at me!” Dean digs his fingers in and shakes him. “I said look at me! Look at me! Look at--”

Something latches onto Dean from behind, abruptly yanks him away from Castiel and shoves him to the ground a few feet away.  “Enough!” Dom barks.  “For the love of God, man, he can’t _see_ you.”

“No! Don’t you hurt him!” Castiel warns Dom with the deep, steely voice that Dean knows so well, but it's clear that Dom has never heard before.  Dom stumbles back, picks up Castiel’s angel blade as he sputters an apology.

Castiel drops down onto his hands and knees and begins to move slowly in Dean’s direction. He pauses, reaches out in front of him with one hand.  “Dean?”

Dumbfounded, Dean’s unable to move. He watches Castiel inch his way toward him, searching. When Castiel stops and calls out to him again, Dean recovers. He quickly crawls over to him and takes his outstretched hand in his. “I’m here,” he says, wrapping his other arm around him.  He pulls Castiel into him, buries his face in the other man's neck, and whispers to him. “Not a dream, Cas. Not a dream.”

“Ohhh.” Dom stands over them, observing.  He nods his head knowingly. “I believe I understand now.”


	4. Chapter 4

Fuck rain.

More specifically, fuck the rain that falls suddenly, out of nowhere, on all three of them. Dean doesn’t feel it at first. He clings to Castiel like he’s a life raft, as if they are both safe floating in one another’s arms, as if no harm can come to them as long as they don’t let go.

“It’s bucketing down!” Dom shouts so he can be heard over the downpour. He pries Castiel away from Dean, throws his jacket over Castiel’s already soaked shoulders. It’s too late, but it’s a gesture, and Dean watches from his knees while Dom pushes Castiel through the back door of the tiny house.

“Are you coming?” Dom hollers back at him, but Dean’s still trying to figure out if he’s angry or grateful that Dom was so quick to protect Castiel from the rain.

Dean sprints for the back door, stops just inside the entryway and stands on the thick jute rug. As he closes the door behind him, he’s hit with a an earthy scent that is strong, but not unpleasant. There’s a small kitchen on one end of the house, a large fireplace on the other, and Dean attributes the unusual smell to whatever is burning hot and bright inside of it. It’s sparsely furnished. There’s a double bed pushed under a window against the wall beside him, a table below the window on the opposite wall, a few chairs scattered about. He sees Castiel seated on a wood bench set in front of the fire.

“Besides this one, I also found the one you were worried about.” Dom throws something that looks like a brick of dirt into the fire while he speaks to Castiel. “He’s safe and sound.”

“Sam.” Castiel calls out the name. “Is he here? Is Sam also here?”

Castiel goes to stand up, but Dom stops him. “Sit. Please don’t fuss. You need to rest.” Castiel complies, and sits back down. “I left him at the pub, but he’s all right. He’s got a pint of the black stuff and a lush lady.” Dom strikes a match from a box on the table, begins to light some of the candles placed throughout the room. “I could only bring the one anyway, just in case I was wrong. I wasn’t fully convinced that the one I brought here was who he said he was, since you told me he was dead, and I didn’t want to take on more than I could handle if it turned out I was wrong.”

Dean’s pretty sure the overgrown rugrat just implied that he could take Dean in a man-to-man, despite the scuffle in the alley that clearly proved otherwise.

“Would you mind handing me that?” Dom’s talking to Dean now, pointing to a neatly folded towel hanging over the foot rail of the bed.

Dean tosses it to him, then goes to Castiel. He lays a hand gently on Castiel’s shoulder, so as not to startle him. “Sam came with me to Ireland. We came here to find you, buddy, and to bring you - home.” Dean has a hard time getting the last word out. He hasn’t told Castiel yet that there is no home to bring Castiel back to, since they’ve given up the bunker, but Dean has thoughts, plans, all of which include Castiel. They’ll work it out when the three of them get back to the States.

Dom approaches Castiel from behind with the towel extended, and tries to pat him dry, but Castiel bats his hands away.

“Dean, how did you get here?” Castiel says. “On an airplane? Or some other means of…”

Dean understands what Castiel is asking him. Castiel doesn’t know what happened with Amara, or Chuck, or even why Dean is alive. That’s only one of a many conversations Dean owes Castiel, none of which can be had until Dean finds a way to lose the only local who has been willing to help him.

“You’re wet and you’re gonna catch cold. It’ll only make it worse.” Dom tries the towel again, but Castiel pushes him away, mumbles something about not needing help.

“Hey Dom, can I talk to you a sec?” Dean waves toward the kitchen area. Dom places the towel in Castiel’s hands so he can dry himself off, then follows Dean to the other side of the cottage.

“Look, thanks for everything you’ve done.” Dean keeps his volume low; he'd rather Castiel not be bothered with this. “But I can take it from here.”

Dom’s jaw goes slack. He glances over his shoulder at Castiel, then back at Dean. “What did you say?”

“I said you can go. I can take care of him from here on out.”

“You’re asking me to leave? _Now?_ ”

Dom looks a bit hurt, and Dean feels badly for a full half-second. Even though they could certainly use the kid’s help, the people after them - these foreign Men of Letters - aren’t playing around, and it’s not safe. Especially for someone as innocent as the boy standing in front of him. “No. I’m not exactly _asking._ ”

Dom eyes Dean suspiciously. “You think you can take care of him? Alone?”

Dean folds his arms across his chest. “That’s what I just said.”

“If I leave you, you’ll have no car, no mobile, and not the slightest idea where you are.”

All very good points, but Dom doesn’t really know what and who he is dealing with. Still, that’s exactly how Dean prefers it. The less Dom knows, the better off he and his entire family will be.

“Speaking of, where’s Cas’s phone?”

“Banjaxed,” Dom says. Dean’s never heard the word, but concludes it must mean thrown to the ground and flattened by a steel-toed boot. “Along with the roof of our barn, when he fell through it. A roof that isn’t going to fix itself.”

So that’s it. Now they’re getting somewhere. If it’s money Dom wants, that’s an easy enough fix. Dean can buy his silence, give him whatever cash he has on him, then send him to Sam for the rest, along with a message. Two birds.

“So it’s about money? Is that it?” Dean fakes annoyance. “Well I can take care of that. How much? However much it is, we’re good for--” He reaches into his pocket for his wallet, but it’s not there. He pats himself down, checks his other pocket. “What the…?”

“Looking for these?”

Dean’s eyes widen when he looks up to find Dom waving Dean’s wallet and badge only inches away from Dean’s face.

“The names don’t match, and neither name is Winchester. I suppose the license has a matching false passport back with your baggage, and the phony badge allows you to be the one to ask all the questions without having to give any answers.”

That’s all true. “How did you--?”

“And you should probably be more careful with this.” Dom pulls Dean’s knife from his jacket pocket. Dean instinctively reaches down toward his boot, to check for the smaller one that he keeps there, but Dom produces that weapon as well.

Dean scowls, although he can’t help but be impressed. Pickpocketing is a skill he was never able to master. “What, were you raised by Fagin? Give it all here.” He’s not sure when Dom did it, possibly when they were struggling in the alley, but there’s no doubt that the kid is good. Dean holds out his hand, palm up, flaps it impatiently until Dom drops all of the stolen items into it. “I already told you, we’re not police.”

“Let me help,” Dom pleads. “Whatever trouble you’re in, or he’s in, I can help.”

“Believe me, it’s not something you need to get caught up in.” One by one, Dean tucks his personal items back into their designated pockets. “How old are you, anyway?”

Dom’s eyes dart around the room. “Old enough.”

“How old?” Dean demands.

“I’m… twenty.”

Dean frowns, raises an eyebrow. Maybe Dom’s not as naive as Dean had believed, but there’s no way this freckle-faced kid isn’t still muddling through his teen years.

“I’m not lying. I _will be_ twenty,” Dom amends. “In sixteen months.”

Dean sighs, purses his lips.

“I’m _already_ caught up in it.” Dom raises his voice, points at Castiel. “And he’s getting worse.”

“Worse? What do you mean he’s getting worse?” Dean still doesn’t know what happened to Castiel after he was blasted out of the bunker, or how he ended up blind with his batteries dead. “He can’t see for crissakes! Worse than that?”

“I’m fine,” Castiel interjects. “I’m right here. I can still hear, and I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You can’t see,” Dean says again.

“Dean, please,” Castiel says sternly. “We need to talk. Privately.”

Dean drops his hands to his hips. “You heard him,” he says to Dom, not too harshly. “The grownups need to talk, so take a little walk.”

Dom rolls his eyes. “Fine. It stopped raining, and I’ve got supplies in the car boot. I’ll unpack them.” Dom’s got his hand wrapped around the door handle when he stops and looks back at Dean. “Just so you know, I’m not leaving him.”

“Neither am I,” Dean shoots back.

“No one’s asking you to. Now, would you please get him into some dry clothes, so he doesn’t catch cold.”

Dean looks down at Castiel. He's shivering, his arms wrapped tightly around his torso in an attempt to warm himself. Dean can't seem to swallow the knot forming in his throat that keeps him silent, so he nods once, contritely, at Dom.

______________________________

They can’t talk too much or too loudly, what with Dom coming in and out of the small house, carrying buckets of water that he sets down in the kitchen area, dropping bags on the table, and stacking up more of those dirt bricks by the fireplace.

Once Dean reassures Castiel again that Sam is completely unharmed, Castiel lets Dean dry his hair off with the towel while Dean briefs him on Lady Bevell, the London chapter of the Men of Letters, and Eileen. Dean finds some dry clothes in a basket by the bed. He fills Castiel in on how things played out in the garden with Amara and Chuck as he helps him pull the damp sweater over his head, replacing it with a thick thermal pullover.

Sufficiently warmed up, Castiel remains characteristically stoic, leaving Dean unable to get a read on how he feels about Chuck and Amara being alive. Chuck is, after all, his father. The father Castiel had searched for for years before he gave up. The father that Castiel had never met yet loved and respected in a way that Dean had been unable to comprehend. The father that, despite opportunity, had nothing much to say to Castiel once Lucifer was violently ripped from his body.

“That’s good, though, right? That they’re both still alive? I mean, in the long run. Yin and yang and all that.” Dean throws it out there, hoping that Castiel will bite.

He doesn’t. “It’s of no import to me one way or another,” Castiel says. “All that matters is that _you_ are alive. You and Sam, both. My brothers.”

 _Brothers._ Hearing Cas say the word makes Dean grimace. Looking back on it, as he has so many times since he said it, Dean regrets using the word, even considered the possibility that it was the reason Castiel looked so troubled at the time. But if it was, Castiel sure seems okay with it now. Maybe Dean misread Castiel’s reaction in the car. Maybe he’s been confusing his own feelings for those of the angel.

“Does it still stand?” Castiel asks after Dean remains silent. “What you said to me in the car? Was it the truth, or were you simply being kind? Did you say it only because you believed it to be the end for us all?”

“Yes. No, no. I mean, yeah, I meant it, Cas. Like I told you, you’re family. _We’re_ family.” What that specifically means to Dean is one of those discussions he intends to have with Castiel. And he will, as soon as the time is right. “So exactly what does your ginger groupie know about us?”

It takes Castiel a moment to process that Dean is referring to Dom. “He’s been helping me try to reach Sam. I told him you were my friends. I told him that you had recently passed, and that it was important that I find your brother. That was before I… ” Castiel squeezes his eyes shut, presses a palm against his forehead. “I had no idea what happened to Sam, what that woman might have had done to him. I imagined the worst.”

Dean watches Castiel closely from his seat beside him on the bench, concerned. “Well you didn’t have much to worry about. Sam can take care of himself.”

“Perhaps ordinarily, but he was grieving. I would never have left his side on my own accord.” Castiel presses one more time on his forehead, pinching it with his fingers. “And you _did_ ask me to watch over him. Do you not recall that, Dean?”

Of course he recalls that. It was in the cemetery, right after Castiel offered to be Louise to his Thelma. But Dean didn’t make that request for Sam’s sake. Not entirely, anyway. “Cas, are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Castiel opens his eyes and looks toward Dean. “Whoever that woman was, she was capable of rendering me virtually powerless, so you must understand why I came to believe Sam was in grave danger.”

“Wait - _she_ did this to you?”

Castiel nods. “I am sure of it. It had to be through the sigil. It must have been altered in some way to accomplish a specific goal.”

“Altered how? I saw it. It didn't look any different.”

“I don’t know. Perhaps in the deployment of it, or--” Castiel bites his lip when Dom kicks the front door open and barrels in again, his arms full. He carries a box over to the kitchen area.

Dean clears his throat, moves closer to Castiel so he can whisper. “So you're saying that she eighty-sixed you and what? Fucked with your grace and Daredevil’d you in the process?”

Castiel cants his head, brows furrowed. “I don’t--”

“Daredevil is one of those superheroes from the comic books. The blind one.” Dom calls out the explanation for Castiel, and it pisses Dean off. Besides being a thief, the boy apparently has super hearing, but he’s bothered less by the eavesdropping than by Dom’s overt familiarity with Castiel’s confusion. “And it’s not a woman that took his sight. It was a gift.”

“What? What the hell are you talking about?” Dean asks Dom, then turns to Castiel. “Cas, what the hell is he talking about?”

“The blindness,” Castiel says slowly. “It’s my own doing,”

Wait. What? “Your own doing? How?”

Castiel pauses, hesitant to say more.

“He saved Da.” Dom turns away from whatever he’s been pretending to be doing in the kitchen to answer for Castiel. “Da’s still sick, but there’s a wee bit of hope now. And he can see again.”

Dean’s baffled. “I don’t… what?”

“I know what Castiel is.” Dom comes over to them, large kettle in hand. “He won’t say the word, but I saw it with my own eyes, and he knows what I saw. I saw it, and I believe it. So you can quit all your whispering on my account. And you can forget any notions you have about getting rid of me so easily.”

Well, this changes everything. Besides, it’s clear from Dom’s tone that any further argument would be a waste of Dean’s breath. Dom hangs the kettle on a hook in the hearth before he moves on to changing the sheets on the bed.

“Cas? I thought you couldn’t… “ Dean’s eyes flit between Dom and Castiel, unsure of exactly what Dom saw and whether he should even bother to deny any of it. “I mean, your, your, you know what I’m talking about. I thought it was on the fritz?”

“You mean my grace?” Castiel shakes his head. “The sigil spell always disrupts grace. That _is_ its purpose. Ordinarily it’s effects are not lingering, but since I was already compromised as a result of the time I’d spent with The Dark--, _Amara_ , and her… _nephew_ , I was not immediately alarmed by the severity of it.”

Dean can read between the lines. Dom knows a helluva lot more than he should about them, but far from everything.

Castiel continues. “There was not enough grace within my reach to heal Thomas, but I had to do something. He was within hours of death when I saw him, suffering from a tumor on his brain, and rendered blind by it.”

“Inoperable,” Dom adds.

Dean saw Thomas Walsh only hours ago, and although he was alive, the man laid up in bed at the Walsh home did not appear to be the recipient of any recent miracles. “I don’t get it. What did you do? If you couldn’t heal him… ”

“I didn’t realize Domnall was still in the room with his father and I. I asked him to fetch a glass of water, and he left. At least I’d _thought_ that he had left.”

Dean grows inpatient. His stomach begins to tighten up. He has a bad feeling about this. “Cas, just tell me. What did you do?”

“I couldn’t heal it, so I attempted to… shift it.”

“Shift it,” Dean repeats slowly. “Shift it? You mean like what you did with Sam at the nut house?”

“Yes. But unlike with Sam, I was only partially successful. I had very little strength of my own to work with, not enough to complete the process.”

Dean jerks his head back, stiffens. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Dean… ”

“You took his brain tumor?” Dean’s yelling now. “You’re telling me that you gave yourself a fucking brain tumor?”

“I was only able to shift a portion of it.”

Castiel’s minimizing the damage, as though Dean should be less worried because he wasn’t able to take on all of it, but a brain tumor is a brain tumor. “And you got the portion that affected his sight.”

“So it would seem.”

Dean jumps up from the bench, paces in front of Castiel, along the floor space between the bench and the hearth. “Jesus Christ, Cas, why? Why would you do something like that?”

Castiel stares up at Dean without saying a word, and even though he cannot see, Dean feels as though he is looking right into him. “We have known one another for many years, Dean. I hope that by now you already know the answer to your question.”

Shit. Of course he does. Dean drops his head, lowers his voice. “I just wish you had thought it through. It was a bad decision, considering you’re basically human now.”

“I’m not human. This feels… different. My grace, it’s here, locked within me.”

Dean perks up slightly. “Well that’s _something_ , right? We might be able to work with that. Is there a way to… unlock it?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I don’t know how.”

“But if we find a way to unlock it, or whatever, then you can fix yourself up?”

“Presumably.”

“And Da too,” Dom says.

Castiel grins, turns his head in Dom’s direction. “Of course, Domnall. I will heal your father as soon as I am able to. I promise you.”

“Well, that explains fanboy over there,” Dean mutters under his breath. “Okay, then, now that there are no more secrets,” Dean lies, “let’s figure out our next move.”

______________________________

They need Sam.

Dean wants to call him, but Dom insists that the people who came looking for Castiel were able to locate him because Dom managed to get Castiel’s phone to turn on long enough for him to retrieve Sam’s number. He’s probably not wrong, considering that’s exactly how he and Sam found Castiel.

Dom agrees to go back to town, find Sam and Eileen, and bring them back to the cottage. Dean walks outside with him.

“He likes the tea with loads of sugar. There’s some in the kitchen press, along with food and bottled water. He hasn’t wanted to eat anything yet, but he may, soon enough. I stacked some peat turves by the fire, and left a basket full of me Da’s old clothes by the bed. Toiletries are on the table, and I’ve placed several buckets of water around in case--”

Dean gets the gist. “Okay, good. Thanks. Listen, when you talk to Sam, tell him you’re headed to Missouri. Make sure he hears you say it. It’ll let him know he can trust you.”

“You have secret words?” Dom grins from ear to ear, and the enthusiasm makes him look even younger than his eighteen years. “I like secret words.”

“We call them code words because we’re not twelve.” Dean can’t help but take a parting jab at Dom’s youth. “But they do come in handy in our line of work. We’re on a need to know basis, and that’s the only one _you_ need to know.”

“Fine.” Dom twists his mouth, nods toward the cottage. “He’s knackered and he needs his rest. Don’t let him go outside alone if you can stop him. He hasn’t quite learned the place yet, so he’ll need help with--”

“What part of ‘I can take care of him’ do you not get?”

“I’m sure you can.” Dom shuffles his feet, kicks at a stone on the ground. “Look, Winchester - Dean - I’m no kind of threat to you. You don’t have to worry about me. You _can_ trust me, I swear. I’ve only good intentions.”

Dean’s learned not to be as loose with his trust as he is with other things, but if they are going to let Dom help them and keep him safe at the same time, he should at least know who they are dealing with. “They’re called the Men of Letters,” Dean offers. “A secret organization that studies and monitors the supernatural. They’re out of business, or so we thought. Turns out there’s an active branch in England.”

Dom listens intently, the corner of his lip quirking as he tries to hide how excited he is that Dean is sharing information with him. “If they’re a secret organization, how do _you_ know about them?”

“Sam and I, we’re legacies. Our grandfather was one of them, back in the day.”

“And you think they’re after Castiel? Because he’s an angel? Even though you and he are… ”

“Maybe.” Dean hadn’t considered that Castiel was their target, but now that Dom has brought it up, he can’t dismiss it. Based on everything Lady Bevell said to Sam, he’d assumed that Castiel was banished only as a convenience, to get him out of the way so they could get to Sam. But if the spell was rigged or enhanced in some way to make Castiel as vulnerable as possible, Dom may just be right. They’ll have to discuss it further once Sam and Eileen get here. Dom may be even more of a help than he’d hoped.

Dean holds out his hand, offers it to Dom. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for Cas. Seriously, I do.”

“A breakthrough. Good. Maybe we will get on after all.” Dom grabs Dean’s hand and shakes it roughly. “I pinched some extra pills from the chemist. They might help him if the pain gets bad. I left them on the table by the bed.”

Pain? Goddammit, Dean hadn’t even considered that Castiel might be in _pain_. Dean’s hands ball up at his side. He wants to punch or throw or break something, but he can’t. He squeezes his eyes shut instead.

“I’m sorry,” Dom says. “You wish he hadn’t done it, but I’ll alway remember. I’ll never forget what he did for Da, regardless of what happens.”

Dean tugs at his collar. He’s been so caught up in Castiel’s condition that he forgot that, despite Castiel’s sacrifice, Dom’s father still might not make it. “Look, I’m sorry about what I said inside. I didn’t mean it, I was just--”

“Sure you meant it,” Dom shrugs. “You can’t bear to see him like this, maybe even blame me for it, but that’s all right. He’s your fella, and I can’t fault ya for how you’re feeling.”

“My fella?”

Dom digs into his pocket while he walks over to the car. He turns around and tosses his phone to Dean. “Don’t use it unless it’s an emergency. They’re probably tracking my mobile too by now.”

“Wait. What do you mean _my fella_?”

“Dean Winchester,” Dom shakes a finger at Dean in playful rebuke, “don’t be such a wanker.” He opens the car door and slides into the seat. “I’ll be back with the others first thing in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. *hands out cookies to all my patient readers* Better late than never?


	5. Chapter 5

Castiel sits straight and still on the bench by the fireplace, the flames flicking much needed color onto his solemn face. He looks warmer, healthier, and Dean watches him until Castiel calls his name.

“So, alone at last, eh?” Dean's embarrassed at how cheesy the words sound once they’re out, but Castiel doesn’t seem to be paying much attention. “Not for long though. The kid’ll be back in the morning with Sam, and Eileen, and then we’ll have a full house. Not that it takes much to fill this house.”

“I rather like small spaces.” Castiel says.

Dean takes a seat next to Castiel on the rough-hewn benchtop. “Really? I did not know that.” He would’ve thought the opposite to be true, that as an angel, Castiel would feel confined and out of place in any type of enclosure. There’s much he doesn’t know about Castiel, too much, and it’s his own fault.

Dean spreads his legs out in front of him, knocks his knee upside Castiel’s thigh as a reminder that Dean’s close, right there beside him. “I thought we could talk, if you feel like it. Is that something you’d wanna do? Talk?”

“Dean,” Castiel says evenly, “You know I appreciate our talks.”

The choice of words is a jab, intended or not, and Dean voices the clear takeaway. “But not always.”

He expects Castiel to make some effort to deny it, but he doesn’t. “Perhaps not always. But tonight I would very much like to hear about your time with your mother.”

“There's a lot to tell there.”

“We have all night, don’t we? The others won’t arrive until morning.”

He _was_ listening. Sometimes with Castiel, it’s hard to tell. “We do.” Dean grins. He likes the idea of sitting by the fire with his friend until the sun comes up over the bluff. “Boy wonder says you like tea.”

“I do.”

“Good. I’m gonna fix us some tea. Then we’ll kick off our boots and I'll tell you everything.”

“You drink hot tea?” Castiel asks.

“Sure,” Dean says. “I mean, I _haven’t_. Not really. Unless you count African dream root tea, which is a whole other thing. But I’m open to trying something new.”

“Why do I suspect that is your mother’s influence?”

“Because you know me.” Dean wraps the towel he used to dry Castiel’s hair around his hand and grabs the kettle from where it dangles over the fire. He carries it to the kitchen, searches through the cabinets until he finds a couple of cups and the tea and sugar Dom told him he’d left there. He’s made tea before, mostly for Sam when he's been sick, but given the choice, it's always been coffee.

He’s pouring the boiling water over the teabags when he hears a grunt, looks over to see Castiel pushing himself up onto wobbly legs, using the unstable bench for support.

“Hey, hey, hey, easy now.” Dean scurries over to him, arms out in front of him. “What are you doing?”

Castiel’s eyes narrow. “I’m going to remove my shoes, as you suggested. When I was human, I took them off nearly every day. It was oddly comforting, especially after a long shift at the Gas-n-Sip.”

“ _Nearly_ every day?" Dean laughs out loud, assumes that Castiel was attempting humor, but he’s wrong.

“When I showered, of course, and sometimes when I slept.”

“Wait - are you saying you haven’t had those boots off in..." Dean looks toward the ceiling to concentrate on his calculations. “Since you were human?”

“I haven’t had occasion to.”

“Huh.”

Castiel holds his hand in front of him and moves toward the general direction of the bed with small, measured steps.

“A little to your left.” Dean tells him, and Castiel shoots him a glare but makes the adjustment. When his fingers make contact with the side of the bed, he keeps one hand in the mattress, turns around and carefully lowers himself onto the edge of it.

Dean keeps his mouth shut while he watches Castiel try, without success, to kick the boots off. He makes several attempts, resorts to dragging the heel along the floor in an attempt to dislodge it, but that fails too.

“Let me help you,” Dean finally says.

Castiel holds up an open hand. “No. I must learn to do this on my own.”

“You don’t have to _must learn_ anything.” Dean shakes his head for emphasis. “This whole Stevie Wonder thing, it’s only temporary. You’ll be good as new in no time.”

“What if I’m not?” Castiel says through pursed lips.

“Well, that’s… No. Not gonna happen.”

“What if the damage is not temporary? What if I remain an impotent angel, suffering from a human disease without the mercy of a human death? What if I am never able to heal Thomas Walsh, and Domnall has placed himself at risk in return for nothing more than a few more weeks of anguish for his father?”

“Cas, you’re not… come on, man, don’t say shit like that, okay? Don’t even think it.” He says it firmly, as if a command, but Castiel isn’t the only one he’s trying to convince. “That’s not the way this is going to go down.”

“And what way is this going to go down?” They both know that Dean doesn’t have that answer yet. Even so, there’s hope in Castiel’s voice.

“We’ll figure it out when Sam gets here. He’s the brains and I’m the looks, remember?” That earns him a half-smile from Castiel. “I don’t know for sure where we’re gonna start, but what I can tell you is that it ends with a trip to a ranch in New Mexico that belongs to a couple friends of mine. We’ll be riding horses, wearing cowboy boots, and sucking down Fireball while watching the sunset and eating the thickest rib eyes you’ve ever seen.”

Castiel’s brow furrows, considering. “What friends?”

“I have friends,” Dean says with a mock defensive tone. He doesn’t, really, though. After Charlie was killed he’d lost the rest of his already limited desire to allow anyone new into his life, even in the most casual sense. Sure, he’d enjoyed Mildred’s company while on the banshee hunt, knowing all along that he’d never see her again. But something resonated with Cesar and Jesse. They were more than just hunters. They were hunters who’d not only reached the finish line, but found the holy grail on the other side of it. Dean envied the hell out of them, and he’d made an exception and kept in touch. “We just met them, me and Sam, on a job. They're in the business. Well, they _were_ in the business. They’re partners. They hunt together, and they recently retired. Also together.”

“Partners? Like you and Sam?”

“No, no, no. _Not_ like me and Sam. The opposite of me and Sam.” Dean can see Cas’s mind sorting through the possibilities, his forehead creased from the effort. He’s probably still having difficulty processing the information that Dean has friends. “They aren’t brothers.”

“Friends?” Castiel asks.

“Spouses.”

“I see.”

Dean’s unsure where the need to explain further comes from, but it’s there. “They’re married. To each other. Like man and wife, only it’s man and, uh… other man.”

“I understand.”

Castiel mulls over Dean’s proposal, says nothing for too long for Dean’s liking. Dean hopes he hasn’t gotten the wrong impression. Except in this case, the wrong impression might actually be the right impression. “That sounds nice,” Castiel finally says. “I’d like to meet them.”

“Then it’s a date.” Dean clears his throat. “Or, you know, a plan. Let’s call it a plan.”

“All right.” One side of Castiel’s mouth quirks up, but only slightly. “Regardless, I am capable of taking off my own shoes.” Castiel sucks in a determined breath, then leans forward, reaching for the stubborn boots. He stops, freezes for a split second then falls forward and off of the bed. He lands on his knees with a sharp thud.

“Cas!” Dean runs to him, helps him get back on his feet and guides him back to the bed. “What was that?”

“It was nothing. I’m fine. I got a little dizzy and--” Castiel winces, clutches at his forehead.

“Fine my ass,” Dean grumbles. “Are you in pain?”

Castiel doesn’t respond, but the answer is obvious. Dean looks over at the side table by the headboard, finds the pain pills Dom had left there alongside a bottle of water. He digs two pills out of their container and hands them to Castiel. “Here. Take these.”

Castiel does as he’s told. Dean twists the cap off of the water and brings it up to Castiel’s mouth, prepared to gently pour it as needed. Instead, Castiel takes the bottle from Dean and guzzles it down, as if it’s the first thing he’s had to drink in ages. Dean supposes it very well could be.

When the bottle is empty, Dean takes it from him. “Enough?”

Castiel nods. “Thank you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with needing help.  You’ve just gotta be strong enough to ask for it.”

Castiel raises a brow. “That was strangely wise.”

Dean sinks down to his knees in front of Castiel, sits back on his legs. “You may not want to hear this, buddy, but we’re more alike than you'd think.”

“You're right Dean.” Castiel smiles softly. “I did not want to hear that.”

Dean chuckles, shakes his head, then concentrates on Castiel’s shoes. He tugs the black, slip-on ankle boots off one at a time. An audible “ahh” comes from Castiel’s throat as each foot is set free, and even before Dean brings the candle from the table down to the floor to get a better look, Dean sees why.

“No socks?” Castiel’s feet are angry red, irritated. When Dean lays a hand on one of them, Castiel jerks away instinctively. It occurs to Dean that Castiel may never have been touched this way, and his mind wanders for a second or two, imagines what other touches Castiel has never experienced; what ones he has. “I just wanna take a quick look. Is that okay?”

“Yes.” Castiel nudges his foot forward in acquiescence, allows Dean to take each foot in his hands, one at a time, to examine it.

“They look pretty sore, a little swollen, and you’ve got a ton of blisters. They must be killing you.”

“They feel better now, but yes, there has been a great deal of discomfort since my arrival.”

“You really should wear socks with these things.”

“Socks.” There’s an air of nostalgia in Castiel’s voice. “I once owned a pair of socks. When I was human, I had to launder them. I used one of the coin washers in the laundromat, and when I removed the clean clothes, they were gone. They’d vanished without a trace. The machine had been making odd noises, and I suspect it may have been possessed.”

“Probably _not_ a possessed washing machine,” Dean says. “Socks have a way of doing that. Growing up, I did all of the laundry for me, Dad, and Sam, and a whole lot of socks went missing. After a while, we just stopped trying to match them up and wore whatever we could find.”

“But where do they go?”

“No one knows. Just one of those mysteries of life, like whatever happened to Amelia Earhart.”

“Amelia Earhart was a highly skilled pilot who crash-landed her malfunctioning aircraft into the ocean and survived for many years thereafter alone on a remote island in the Pacific until she succumbed to dysentery.”

“Okay then. _Not_ like Amelia Earhart.”

“I never got around to replacing them,” Castiel says, “and then it became unnecessary.”

“Well we’re in luck. Jimmy Olsen brought you some clean ones. They’re here with the other clothes.” Dean reaches into the bedside basket, but quickly changes his mind. Putting socks on Castiel’s feet in the condition they are in now isn’t going to help much.

“I’ve got an idea. I’ll be back.”

Before Dean can get up, Castiel grabs onto his shoulder and holds him there. “Where are you going?”

The last time he saw that look on Castiel’s face, Dean was force-feeding him that bullshit line about being brothers. He lays a hand on Castiel’s knee. “Nowhere. Like I told Opie, I’m not going anywhere. I’m in it for the long haul, Cas, I promise you that.”

Castiel visibly relaxes, his grip on Dean’s shoulder loosens. He peers down at him, head cocked, and the fact that Castiel can gaze at him so keenly, see him without seeing him, is unsettling.

“I’m just gonna go to the kitchen and pour some of that kettle water into a bowl so we can soak your feet. Okay?”

“Of course, yes. I’m sorry. I’m not used to feeling so…” He doesn’t finish the thought.

 _Vulnerable,_ Dean silently finishes for him. Dean’s been blindfolded before, he knows the feeling. He’s familiar with the heightened fear that comes with not being able to see what’s happening around you. If he wants Castiel to feel as safe as possible, he’s going to have to be more verbal, communicate clearly, make sure that Castiel is at all times aware of where Dean is and what Dean is doing. “Nothing to be sorry for. I should’ve explained.”

The tiny kitchen isn’t as stocked with supplies as the one in the bunker was, but Dean manages to locate an enameled bowl large enough to accommodate Castiel’s feet. He fills it with the remainder of the hot water, adds a scoop of cool water from one of the buckets Dom brought in from outside. Castiel’s feet barely fit into the bowl, but they’re mostly covered with the water and it’s good enough.

With Castiel’s feet soaking, Dean sorts through the toiletries Dom left on the table. He finds what he is looking for when he spots a small, red tin box with a white cross on it. He places it on the table by the bed for later.

“Your mother was the thing you needed most.” It’s not a question. Castiel leans forward on the bed, holds the mug of tea in both hands. “I had no idea, Dean. I knew she was taken from you when you were very young, but I wasn’t aware that the wound was still so… present.”

“Me neither.” Dean collects the tea he made for himself and sits on the bed beside Castiel. “It was nice to see her and talk to her. When she hugged me for the first time, I cried like a friggin’ baby. It was embarrassing. Not a great first impression.”

“She’s your mother, Dean. I’m sure she understood.”

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s hard to explain, though. We were strangers, mostly, but not really. We had a good time, found out we have a lot in common. Like _Star Wars_.  Turns out, she's a fan too.  We watched _Return of the Jedi,_ her idea.  She never got to see it because it came out right after Sammy was born, and then…  Well, she never had the chance. I had to lie to her though, told her that _Jedi_ was the last _Star Wars_ movie ever made. Seemed like the right thing to do.”

Castiel grins.

“Oh, and we made pie. Well, _she_ made pie, and I ate it. We played poker and drank beer, and we talked a lot, about hunting, growing up, and other stuff.” Dean jabs an elbow into Castiel’s side. “I told her about you.”

Castiel’s eyes widen at that. “About me?”

“Yeah, I mean, I don’t get why you’re surprised. You’re part of our lives, Cas. A big part. An important part.”

“May I ask what you told her?”

“That you help us, and how you’ve been there for us. How much I’ve come to rely on you, and lean on you.”

Castiel drops his chin for a moment, chews on his bottom lip. “I suppose when I’m at full power I am able to provide a certain--”

Dean cuts him off. “Your powers have nothing to do with it. In fact, I don’t think they even came up.”

It's not the first time Castiel has said something like that.  It bothers Dean that Castiel's self-worth is so tied into his angelic identity, considering what angels have done to Castiel. Dean's not blameless, though, he recognizes that. While he was gone, he swore that if he ever made his way back to Sam and Castiel, _his family_ , there would be no more secrets, no more lies. 

Castiel slurps the last of his tea, hands the empty mug to Dean and thanks him.

"No big."  Dean sets both mugs on the small table.

“Dean, I owe you an apology," Castiel says.

“Why’s that?” 

“I doubted you. When you told me in the car that you approved of what I had done, that I was your brother, I didn't believe you were being truthful.”

“Right.” Dean lowers his eyes, focuses on his hands as he slides them up and down his denim covered thighs. He hasn’t mapped out yet how to say it, what words to use and what order to put them in, but now is the time to tell Castiel what's been on his mind since Mildred's lesson on sunsets.  “About that. Don’t apologize. You shouldn’t apologize, because you’re not exactly wrong.”

Castiel stiffens suddenly, accidentally kicks the bowl out from beneath his feet. He starts to get up, but Dean beats him to it, stands in front of him and grabs hold of both of his arms. “Wait, Cas. Let me finish.”

Castiel allows Dean to guide him back down onto the bed. Dean grabs the towel he’d used on Castiel’s hair, squats down by Castiel’s feet.

“I lied to you. Your stint with Lucifer, it was bad. Maybe you thought you could control him, maybe you thought he wouldn’t harm you, but dammit, Cas, he’s the fucking Devil, so, basically, never a good idea to let him in. Not under any circumstances.”

Castiel exhales loudly, as if he’d been holding his breath. “I agree, Dean. Thank you for your honesty.”

“I’m not done.” Dean carefully blots Castiel’s feet with the towel. “And the truth is that you _are_ a brother to Sam, and that’s great for him because having me as his only kin sucked ass."  He tosses the towel over the puddle of water from the bowl and reaches for the first aid kit.  "But as far as you and me, it’s not the same. There’s too much history between us, and it just doesn’t feel like that. Not anymore.”

Castiel remains silent.  He's tempted to look up at him, but as it is, it’s hard enough to say what he’s trying to say.  He opens the tube of ointment from the kit, dabs it on the open blisters on Castiel’s toes and soles of his feet, then wraps gauze around it.

“You're telling me you don’t think of me as a brother.”

Dean’s forced to look at Castiel when he hears his voice, small and more unsure than he’s ever heard it before.

“No Cas, I do. I mean I _did_ , but now I think - no, now I _know_ , that for me, it’s something else. Something… more. Something… bigger.”

Dean rips off two pieces of tape with his teeth and secures the bandages on each of Castiel’s feet. Once he’s done he slaps his hands together, rubs them clean as he rises to his feet.

“Then, what is it?” Castiel asks.

Dean shrugs. “I can’t - I'm not sure, but I have an idea. I thought, maybe, we'd figure it out together. If you're willing.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. It’ll come to us.”

Castiel mumbles something that Dean can’t quite make out. Dom was right. Castiel’s tired, and with the pain pills kicking in, he struggles to keep his eyes open. “Bedtime,” Dean announces. He helps Castiel maneuver onto the mattress and under the quilted cover, then grabs an extra blanket and lies down on his side in front of the fire. It’s difficult to get comfortable. The floor is hard and uneven, comprised of large flat stones, but Dean’s slept on worse and this will have to do. He rolls from side to side, then flat onto his back, trying to find the best position for his six foot frame.

“There’s room up here, Dean,” Castiel whispers.

Dean hesitates for a moment before he sits up, unties and pulls off his own boots. He climbs onto the bed, into the space Castiel has made for him by scooting closer to the wall, and lies facing Castiel’s back atop Castiel’s quilt. He spreads the spare blanket over both of them, closes his eyes, and sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, I should never post at 3 am. So many errors in the morning light...


	6. Chapter 6

Sleeping with Castiel is unexpectedly easy.

The mattress is thin and stiff, somewhat musty, but it’s far from the worst thing Dean has ever had to sleep on. As difficult as it was, with the way his heart was knocking around inside his chest like it was trying to get out, once he finally fell asleep, he was out.

Dean reluctantly opens his eyes.  He feels rested.  Castiel is still asleep, rolled onto his back and less than a foot away from him. Dean lies there for a few moments and takes it in. Castiel shouldn’t be sleeping, he knows that, but even so, there’s something reassuring about the rise and fall of Castiel’s chest, about the lines across his cheek left by the wrinkled pillow, about the way his slightly parted lips don’t quite meet in the middle.

He hears voices. They’re low and muffled, the tone non-threatening, but nevertheless Dean stays stock still while he assesses. Two, maybe three people are in the room with him, whispering. The closest knife is in his boot on the floor by the bed, and Castiel’s angel blade, the more lethal weapon, is on the table, a leap and a lunge away. The goddamned gun is on the nightstand of a bed and breakfast in Dingle.

“I think he’s awake.”

Dean relaxes when he hears his brother’s voice, then tenses right back up when he realizes what his brother is witnessing. He raises his hand in acknowledgment, then slowly climbs out of the bed, holds his finger up to his lips to make sure they don’t wake Castiel.

It’s pretty damn disturbing that he didn’t hear them come in, didn’t even hear a car pull up. The three of them are huddled in the middle of the room. Sam gapes at him, eyes wide. Eileen smiles, then turns away quickly.

“Sorry we’re late,” Dom loud-whispers, then winks at him. “Not that you’d noticed, eh?”

“Dean, what’s going--” Sam’s not whispering, but he shuts his mouth when Dean shoots him a stern look and gestures toward the back door.  Sam follows him outside without a word.

The sun is well and truly up, positioned high in the sky. A quick glance at his watch confirms that it’s late morning.

“I don’t want to wake him up until we have to. He needs sleep,” Dean explains as soon as both men are alone outside. “At least I _think_ he does.”

Sam gulps, and Dean can tell by his expression that Dom has already given him the details of Castiel’s condition. “I can’t believe what’s happened to Cas. And Dom said that his biggest concern has been _me._ ” Sam runs his hand through his hair, but the breeze coming off of the ocean below them makes it impossible to tame. “It’s a good thing you’re here now, to uhm, help him, or, uhm, whatever it was you and Cas were doing.”

Dean throws his head back. “Grow up. There was only one bed. We didn’t _sleep_ together. We just _slept_ together.”

“Thanks for clearing that up.” Sam smirks, then has an immediate change of heart. “I mean, I get that there was only one bed, but I’ve seen you sleep in a rusted out bathtub rather than share a bed with me.”

Dean rolls his eyes. It’s true, at least as far as the last thirty or so years goes. He wonders what, if anything, Sam remembers of the first four years of his life. Once he outgrew the crib, Sam slept in Dean’s bed almost every night, until their father decided they were both "too old for that sort of thing." John warned Dean that coddling his younger brother was going to make them both soft, and even though at eight years of age he wasn’t entirely sure what John meant by that, he’d learned enough to know that soft was dangerous, that soft was not something a Winchester should ever be.

Dean scrubs a hand over his mouth. “Before I left Mom, I made her a promise.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam’s expression gentles, along with his tone. “What kind of promise?”

“It was the last time I spoke to her, although I didn’t know it was going to be at the time. Right before I fell asleep and woke up back at the motel. We were looking at pictures, old photographs that I’d never seen before. They were loose in a shoebox Mom apparently kept under the bed. She had a story, a memory about each one. When we were done, she said she was worried about me, about what would happen to me and to you if I kept going the way I have, the way I'd been taught.”

“Huh.” Sam nods, listens.

“She told me I was never meant to be an island, and she wanted me to promise that I wouldn't let that happen. I asked her how, how am I supposed to do that because, honestly, I wasn't sure what she meant.  You know what she said? She said ‘follow your heart, son.’ Just like that. ‘Follow your heart.’”

“That sounds like pretty good advice, Dean.”

“Yeah, well it freaked me out because Mildred - you know, mustard to my hot dog Mildred - she told me the same thing.”

Sam cocks his head. “I thought she told you that you were pining for someone.”

“She also told me to follow my heart. She called it the key to a long and happy life. She said if I did, everything else would fall into place. Weird, right?”

“Not really.” Sam shrugs, shoves his hands into his pockets and kicks at the ground with the toe of his boot before he takes a deep breath and speaks again. “So, is that what you’re doing in there? With Cas?”

“Maybe. I think so.”

Sam’s brows hike up. “You _think_ so?”

Dean grunts, as if he’s in physical pain. Doing whatever he's doing with Castiel is one thing, talking about it is something else altogether. He takes a few steps away from Sam, toward the bluff, then immediately circles back. “I’m, I’m, I’m _trying,_ but the timing couldn’t be worse, and Cas, he seemed sort of… confused by it. I shouldn’t have dumped it on him last night. He was tired, and a little out of it from the pain pills, and he didn’t say much, so who knows what’s going on in his head right now.”

“Seriously, Dean?” Sam huffs, shakes his head in reprimand. “How can you not know? Dude, he loves you. Cas _loves_ you.”

Surely Sam understands that it isn’t that simple, that nothing ever has been for him and Castiel. “Yeah, he does. I know that, I do. But I don’t know what that means for him, as an angel. A guy angel at that, if that’s even a thing. And to tell you the truth, I don’t think he knows either.”

Sam twists his mouth, lays a comforting hand on Dean’s shoulder. “So the pining, that _was_ about Cas, wasn’t it?”

“Well it sure as shit wasn’t you or Amara, so… yeah, Einstein _,_ process of elimination.”

“Right.” Sam chuckles, then clears his throat. “Thanks for talking to me, Dean. I know it’s not your thing.” Sam squeezes Dean’s shoulder. “I want you to know that I’m really sorry if I ever did anything, or, or said anything, or if I ever, in any way, made you feel like you couldn’t talk about some things. Or that you _shouldn’t_ talk about some things.”

“Not you,” Dean says. “That’s not on you, Sam.” That’s all Dean’s going to say to Sam on that subject. He instinctively pats his pocket to check that he still has his wallet and the photograph from Mary’s box that he’d palmed and hidden in there. He backs up a few feet and sits down on the boulder he found Castiel on yesterday. “What about you and Eileen?”

Sam shrugs with one shoulder, directs his eyes toward the water behind Dean. “I kissed her.”

“Wait, what?” Dean straightens up, looks up at Sam.

“I said I--”

“No, I heard you. You _kissed_ her kissed her?”

Sam’s facade of nonchalance dissolves. He plops down on the grass facing Dean, leaning toward him, his long legs folded crosswise in front of him. “No, not quite. While we were at the bar, she managed to get some great intel on Lady Bevell. We’ll talk about it inside. Anyway, I’d had a few beers by then, and I was excited about it, so I kissed her. It was a knee-jerk reaction. Quick. Once. On the lips.”

“Did she mind?”

“No.” Sam tucks some hair behind his ears. “I don’t believe she did.”

“Then you might wanna get on that Sammy.”

Sam nods. “Okay, but let’s say, for the sake of argument, I did ‘get on that.’ You should know... I'm telling you, that it wouldn’t be like the waitress. It wouldn’t be just another road gig.”

“I get that.”

“And you’re… okay with that?”

“It’s not up to me.” Dean breathes in deeply, exhales slowly. “Look, I know I’ve been a dick about it in the past, but we’ve both been through a helluva lot since then. Things are different now. You and me both, we’re different now. Maybe it’s time. Maybe it’s okay now for us to kick back and just be who we really are.”

Sam’s staring up at him, looking at him like he did all those years ago when he used to hang on his big brother’s every word. “Besides, Sam, I figure what’s good for the goose is good for the goose’s brother.”

Sam laughs, wipes at his eyes one at a time, then jumps up and points his thumb toward the cottage. “I brought your bag from your room at the bed and breakfast. It’s in the car. I’m gonna go get it and bring it into the house.”

“Good. Okay. Thanks.”

Sam takes a step, then hesitates, turns back around before he goes any further. “I like this. Me and you talking about personal stuff, like we’re grownups.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Dean flaps his arm at him. “Now get lost so I can take a piss over the edge of this cliff and knock that off my bucket list.”

Sam smiles. “Sure Dean. See you inside.”

______________________________

Dean quickly changes into a couple of clean shirts from his duffel bag while Sam and Eileen gather chairs around the table in the middle of the room. Castiel is up and seems well enough. He and Dom are discussing Thomas Walsh’s condition, and judging by their expressions, Dom’s father isn’t doing any better.

Eileen sits down at the table and Sam takes the seat next to her. He reaches into his backpack on the floor by his feet and retrieves his tablet, signaling his readiness to begin the discussion. He waits for the others to join them. Dom tries to take Castiel’s arm to help him over to the table, but Castiel stubbornly pulls away from him. Dean’s pleased that he’s so feisty. Feisty is a good sign. Dean swoops up behind him, inconspicuously presses his hand firmly into Castiel’s lower back and guides him toward the table. He allows Castiel to find his own chair and seat himself, then sits down beside him.

Dom narrows his eyes at Sam’s tablet.

“No wifi or data service. We downloaded everything we had while we were in town.” Sam makes his disclaimer before Dom has a chance to chastise him. Dean wonders if Sam’s phone survived the trip from Dingle. “So, Eileen has some connections and found out a few things about this Lady Toni Bevell. She’s a crack shot, trained in Muay Thai, and she’s _not_ a legacy.”

“Not a legacy? I thought that was the only way in,” Dean says. “Eileen, do we know how - or more importantly why - she’s the head of their unwelcome committee?”

“Not exactly,” Eileen says. “Up until a few years ago, she was an unemployed rich girl enjoying a privileged lifestyle in Kensington. Then she moved away and dropped out of sight rather suddenly.”

“That was not-so-coincidentally about the same time her mother, and her only living immediate family, was diagnosed with schizophrenia,” Sam adds.

Dom glances around the table. “She went home to tend to her sick mother. That’s what people do, isn’t it? Put their families first?”

“Oh, I get the feeling that there’s much more to it than A-plus daughtering,” Dean says. “Am I right, Sam?”

Sam swipes a finger across his tablet and points to the medical journal article that appears onscreen. “There was zero history of mental illness in the family, and the mother, Lady Bevell number one, was fifty-seven at the time. FYI, in women, schizophrenia tends to develop in their mid to late twenties. It’s practically unheard of to receive an initial diagnosis at the age of fifty-seven.”

“So if it wasn’t schizophrenia,” Dom asks, “what was it? And what does it have to do with your Men of Letters?”

“We’re getting there,” Sam says. “Initially she reported hearing voices in her head, voices that she couldn’t shut off. Nine months later she’s dead, under circumstances that appear to be suspicious, yet have been kept tightly under wraps.”

“Angel radio.” Castiel has been stoically silent up until now. “The voices were angel radio. She was a vessel.”

Sam nods. “That’s what it looks like. Lady Bevell One was possessed by a fallen angel and likely ended up a casualty of the angel conflicts.”

“And Lady Bevell Two is holding a mean grudge,” Dean says.

“Our theory is that when she realized the doctors were wrong, she enlisted the Men of Letters for help with her mother,” Eileen says. “Then after she lost her, she somehow became a member.”

“Same backstory as every damn hunter we know,” Dean tells Dom. “Motivated by revenge. So now she hunts angels, and she won’t stop until she destroys them all.”

“Not _all_ of them,” Sam says.

“Only the one responsible for the angels' fall to earth,” Castiel states with a familiar indifference that disturbs Dean. “Only me.”

Dean shakes his head emphatically. “Nah, that’s not right. It’s not your fault. That was all douche-bucket Metatron.”

“No, Dean. It may have been unwitting, but it _was_ my doing, and I _am_ responsible. For that, and much more.”

“Fallen angels?” Dom asks. “Angel conflicts?”

“I’ll explain that to you later,” Sam says to Dom, then addresses everyone. “Look, they probably have no idea how it really went down. There’s always a possibility that we can just, tell them what really happened. Maybe they’re willing to listen to reason.”

Dean raises his brows. “Did she seem willing to listen to reason in the bunker, Sam?”

“You're right. It was more like zap first, ask questions later,” Sam says. “Which would suggest that not only was the sigil designed to weaken Cas, it was also intended to send him to a specific place.”

“But that part didn’t work, and instead you ended up in Dingle, in our barn.” Dom concludes. “So what do we do?”

“We give them what they want.” Castiel places both of his hands on the table, palms flat against the surface. “We give them me.”

“No!” Dean’s response comes out loud and uncontrolled. He lowers his voice. “No, Cas. That’s not an option.”

Castiel opens his mouth, but Sam cuts him off. “Cas, Dean’s right. Forget it. But don’t worry, we do have a plan.”

“All ears,” Dean says.

“Apparently, Lady Bevell’s tactics with regard to dealing with angels are considered… unconventional… and have been frowned upon by some of the more traditional, longer-standing members of the chapter," Sam starts.

Castiel’s hands curl up into tight balls while Sam continues. “I say we reach out to _them,_ find out exactly what _they_ want. Depending on how that goes, maybe we fill them in on what we’ve been doing. Maybe we work _with_ them.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says. “We _are_ supposed to be on the same side. But I don’t want to leave Cas--”

“You don’t have to. I meant me and Eileen. She’s the one with the connection.”

“Some of them are sure to be familiar with Edward Durbin,” Eileen tells them. “He was the American Men of Letter’s European ambassador, and he had a reputation for honesty, and fairness. We’re fairly certain they will be willing to take a meeting with his legacy. Me.”

Dean grins. “Well I’ll be damned.”

“It’s too dangerous,” Castiel says. “I can’t allow it.”

“No, Cas, it isn’t. Not really. I mean, think about it. If they’d wanted me dead, I’d be dead,” Sam points out. “But as far as we can tell, they still think that Dean’s dead, and we should keep it that way, for as long as possible.”

“This is _my_ problem, not yours. I'm the one who engaged with Metatron. I have made this mess, and I think it would be safer and easier if I--”

“Not happening, Cas.” Dean lays his hand over Castiel’s fist. “We’re family, and that means your mess is our mess, you got that?” Dean feels Castiel’s clenched hand loosen beneath his own. “Look, buddy, Sam’s right. They’ll be fine. Do you trust me?”

“Of course I do, Dean.”

“Good. Then it’s settled.” Dean rubs his stomach. “I’m hungrier than a pishtaco in Beverly Hills, and I smell something meaty and potatoey coming from the kitchen.”

“It’s stew,” Dom says proudly. “Mam made it special. There’s also a soda bread, some cheese, and a bit of--.”

“Shh,” Dean says. “You had me at stew.”


	7. Chapter 7

“I’m not sure we can trust him.”

Dean is peering through the back window, trying to keep an eye on Castiel and Dom. He can’t see much through the dirty glass. Most of the sand and grime obscuring his view are on the outside of the window pane, but he swipes his shirt sleeve across it, clears it enough to be able to see the faces of the two men on the bluff. “Did you say something, Sam?”

Sam clears his throat, repeats himself. “I said I’m not so sure we can trust him.”

Dean’s distracted. He’s got other things on his mind, things like Castiel. Since they nixed his proffered self-sacrifice and settled on a more reasonable course of action, Castiel has barely said a word. He didn’t eat either, which would be of no concern to Dean if he thought that Castiel’s lack of appetite was due to his angelic condition rather than his human one. But Dean knows better, and the only thing he wants right now is for everyone to get the hell out of there so he can deal with Castiel. Alone.

Dean swings his head around, brow furrowed. “Who? The kid?”

Sam and Eileen glance briefly at one another. Sam says something to her with his hands, and she nods.

Dean frowns. “You’re joking, right?” He looks one more time through the window before he steps away from it and toward Sam. “Wait, I know what’s going on.” Dean smirks. “Did he get you too? Cop your wallet?”

“What are you talking about?” Sam grabs at his pocket on instinct, a flicker of uncertain relief on Sam’s face when he finds what he’s looking for.

Now is probably not the right time to disclose the newcomer’s penchant for larceny. “Nevermind. What are _you_ talking about?”

Sam rocks his head from side to side. “I know he helped Cas, and now he seems to be helping _us_ out too--”

“Seems to be?”

“He _is_ helping us,” Sam corrects. “But we still don’t _know_ him. Not enough to be sharing as much information with him as we have been. It’s dangerous enough that he knows what Cas is.”

Dean scrubs his hand over his mouth, turns to Eileen. “So have you two been talking about this? And you agree with him?”

“The family, his father’s illness, that all checks out.” Eileen shrugs. “But I do have concerns. Then again, I’m not one to easily trust anyone. Although I’ve recently made an exception. Or two.”

“Come on, look at him.” Dean waves his arm toward the window. “He’s a freckle-faced teenager who just found out that angels and magic and secret supernatural societies really do exist. Cas is a rock star to him, and guess what--we’re in the fricking band.”

“We only know what he’s told us,” Sam argues. “And as far as his enthusiasm for Cas goes, you know damn well that he wants something from him.”

Sam’s not wrong. Castiel cannot heal Thomas Walsh if he’s holed up in some unsanctioned Men of Letters dungeon, or dead. Dom’s motivation may not be entirely altruistic, but it’s pure. “And that's the reason why he's not gonna let anything bad happen to him.”

“Maybe.”

Dean raises the beer in his hand, tips it towards Sam. “Well, Cas trusts him, and that’s all we need to know.” That’s the end of the conversation, as far as Dean is concerned. He takes a long pull from the bottle, swallows, then burps. He pats his stomach. “That’s damn good stuff.”

“Is it, though?” Sam says.

“Damn straight it is. The Black Stuff, served at room temp, not chilled like at home. It’s better from the tap--you don’t get that creamy white head from the bottle--but this’ll do. Plus it’s good for you. It’s the real deal.” Dean takes another sip.

Sam chews his bottom lip. “I wasn’t talking about the beer.”

“Then what were you--” Dean takes a quick step back and away from Sam when he grasps Sam’s meaning. “Whoa, man, you can’t be serious. You’d better not be serious.”

“Look, Dean,” Sam says carefully, “you can’t deny that Cas’s track record when it comes to this sort of thing isn’t exactly--”

“Don’t go there.” Dean slams his bottle down on the table, shakes a finger at Sam. “I’m warning you, Sam, don’t you go there.”

Sam squeezes his mouth shut. He nods once while his hands gesture rapidly to Eileen. The whole talking-in-front-of-his-back thing Sam and Eileen have been doing only aggravates Dean further.

“Of course. I could use some fresh air. Excuse me.” Eileen squeezes Sam’s arm. Neither man moves until she disappears through the front door and it’s shut behind her.

Dean continues to glare at Sam, scratches his short fingernails on the table between them. It doesn’t take long for Sam to look away.

“So what are you saying?” Dean finally says. “That you don’t even trust Cas?”

Sam crosses his arms. “No. That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

“No. It isn’t.” Sam shakes his head. “I’m not trying to cause a problem, really, I’m not, but we’re a little out of our element here, and I just… These are _people_ after us. _Humans_. And let’s not forget that we’re in a foreign country, we have limited access to weapons, and Cas is… I’m being cautious.”

Most of what Sam said is true. Monsters are more predictable than humans, and there’s a helluva difference between hunting and being hunted. Dean has knives, so does Sam, but still, they’re not adequately armed. There are laws in Ireland, restrictions they aren’t accustomed to and didn’t have time to figure out how to get around. Eileen was able to provide them with one illegal firearm between the two of them--a compact, pretty little two-toned Sig Sauer. Dean has a hunch that the people searching for Castiel aren’t facing the same impediments.

“You know how I feel about Cas,” Sam continues. “You know I trust him. I only brought it up because I’m worried about leaving you two here. I don’t want to make a mistake. Before Eileen and I head out to London, I need to… I _have_ to know that you and Cas will both be safe.”

When it comes to sizing up strangers they cross paths with, Dean relies mostly on instinct. It’s far from foolproof, but it’s gotten him this far. They’ve all made mistakes, errors in judgment. They don’t always agree. While in Purgatory, Castiel had no faith in the vampire Dean had been traveling with. Turned out that Dean hadn’t been wrong about Benny Lafitte, proven the moment he watched him save Castiel’s life. He’s not wrong about Domnall Walsh either.

“We’ll be fine.” Dean goes back over to the window. Dom’s mouth is moving a mile a minute, arms flailing wildly, while Castiel is listening and -- Dean leans in closer to the window to confirm what he sees -- smiling. Castiel is _smiling._ “My gut says he’s okay. Cas trusts him, and _I_ trust him.”

“Okay then. That’s good enough for me.”

“Good.”

Dean grabs his bottle from the table, carries it over to the bed. He digs into his duffel bag with his one free hand. “Cas needs some good socks, like those ones with the extra cushion that keep your feet--here they are.” Dean tosses the ball of socks onto the bed.

“Okay,” Sam says. “By the way, the sidearm is in the zippered compartment inside your bag. I wrapped it in a hand towel, to keep it hidden.”

“Really? What about you guys?”

“We’re set. We have Eileen’s. And there’s no way I’d leave you here without one.”

“Okay. Good.” Dean unzips the pocket. It’s there, inside a stiff, floral linen cloth. Dean shakes his head. “Really dude?”

Sam shrugs. “Anyway, after we leave, I suggest you keep it in your pants.”

Dean’s brow hikes up.

“The gun,” Sam adds quickly. “I’m referring to the gun.”

“Sure.”

“Because the other thing, I don’t care. It’s okay with me,” Sam rambles, flustered. “Not that you need my okay. I mean, of course you don’t. Why would you? There’s no reason--”

Dean tries not to smiles when he cuts him off. “Shut up. I get it.”

Sam pinches his lips together.

“Thanks.” Dean closes the zipper, winks at Sam so he knows he’s not upset with him. “Let’s hope we never have to use it.” He starts to sort through the clothes in the bag, mentally noting which items Castiel could use. “And for the record,” he says offhandedly, “I’m also referring to the gun.”

Sam laughs, nods in agreement. “And let’s also hope that in a few days this will all be over. That Cas’s grace will be back and everything with the Men of Letters will be straightened out. Then who knows, maybe we can go back to the bunker.”

Dean stills for a moment, then shakes his head. “Nah. We can’t go back to the bunker.”

“I think we can,” Sam says. “Hear me out. If things work out with the British Men of Letters, I think we can all work together. Me, you, and Cas, of course, and maybe Eileen, if she’s interested. There’s plenty of room. We’d have to juice up the bunker warding, and it wouldn’t hurt to be a whole lot more selective about who we bring back there, but other than that, it’s got everything we need wrapped up in an infinite supply of electricity and hot water. And I held onto the key. ”

Dean drops the denim jeans he’s chosen for Castiel onto the bed, then gives Sam his full attention. “I wasn’t clear. I’m saying I don’t _want_ to go back to the bunker.”

“Why not?” Sam lets one hand fall to his hip, scratches the back of his neck with the other. “It’s the best place we’ve ever had to live.”

Dean looks away from his brother, turns his gaze downward at the bottle in his hand. “No, Sammy. It’s not.”

“Huh?”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut.

“Fuck,” Sam utters softly. “Dean, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, I know.”

“I wasn’t thinking. It’s just… other than what I saw in your heaven, I don’t remember any of that. I have no actual memories of the house in Lawrence, or mom, or us ever living there. None.”

“It’s okay, Sam. I know. How could you?” He brings the beer bottle to his mouth. “I really wish that you did, though. I think it’d help you to understand why-- ” Dean changes his mind, ends the thought mid-sentence. It’ll just lead to the issue he’s not ready to discuss with Sam yet, and it can wait. Besides, there’s been so much talking today already.

“Understand why what?” Sam’s forehead creases--Dean can’t tell if it’s from confusion or concern--but Sam doesn’t get a chance to follow up his question. Dom and Castiel come in through the back door with Eileen right behind them.

“Nothing, You’re right,” Dean says quickly. “Sounds like a great idea.” Dean shoves the bottle past his lips, tips his head back and chugs the rest of his beer. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Another?” Dom offers Sam.

“Hey, what about me?” Dean whines, but Dom’s already handing Sam an opened bottle. “Is there any more?”

“That was the last one,” he says. “I didn’t think Guinness would do for you.”

Dean has no right to be disappointed, but he is. A little more alcohol would’ve gone a long way in easing his communication with Castiel. “Well that’s where you’re wrong, gingersnap,” he quips.

“Brutal error on my part,” Dom says. “I took ya for a whiskey man and picked up a bottle of Jameson instead. It’s still in the boot. Should I take it back?”

Dean grins. He’s definitely not wrong about Domnall Walsh.

______________________________

 

Dean tries not to seem too eager. Eileen and Dom are already in the car, waiting while Sam says goodbye. Dean stands by while Sam touches Castiel’s shoulder, promises him that everything will be all right. Once Castiel nods and thanks him, Dean leads Sam towards the door.

“Don’t use it unless it’s an emergency.” Sam returns Dom’s phone to Dean. “There was no place around to pick up a burner, but I've cleared this one's history, deleted all apps and made sure that the GPS, wifi, bluetooth, diagnostics, and all location services are disabled.”

Dean doesn’t understand most of that, but he takes the phone and slides it into his pocket. “Great. Thanks.”

“Dom will come by and fill you in on the meeting details tomorrow.”

“Okie doke.” Dean opens the door for him.

“Unless, of course, they don’t bite. Then we’ll be back to regroup.”

Dean pats Sam on the back, then presses gently to guide him over the threshold. “Yep. Got it.”

Sam turns around. “And don’t worry about--”

“Sam. We’re good. We already went over all of this.”

“Yeah.” Sam’s eyes flit over to Castiel. “Dean, what if we can’t--”

“I’ve got him.” Dean says it to reassure his brother, but it’s true. It’s the one thing he knows for sure.

Sam nods.

Dean waves as the car pulls away, then closes the door and locks it. He turns toward Castiel, claps his hands together. “I thought they’d never leave, am I right?” He’s only half-joking.

Castiel says nothing.

“So, Cas, you’ve been awfully quiet. How’s the head?” Castiel hasn’t taken any pain pills or complained of any discomfort. Dean hopes that means he’s getting better.

“I’m fine.” Castiel says, almost automatically. It’s what they do. It’s frustrating, but Dean and Sam are just as guilty of it as Castiel is. Dean opens the bottle of whiskey he had Dom leave on the table, pours himself a few fingers. He grabs one of the chairs and flips it in Castiel’s direction before he sits down.

“You’re not. Not even close. We’ve already established that, so let’s move past the obligatory ‘I’m fines,’” Dean says firmly, "and do this one more time, with feeling. How’s your head, Cas?”

“There is no pain.”

“Good. Now tell me what’s on your mind.” Dean already knows. Castiel wants to help the angels, and Dean’s got a list as long as Sam’s arm of reasons why he shouldn’t. Dean takes a sip from his glass, prepares himself. “And don’t try to tell me that there’s nothing bothering you.”

“There is… something.” Castiel shifts in his seat. “I believe, I'm fairly certain, that I have to urinate.”

Dean’s relief comes out as a laughter. “That’s it? That’s why you’re sulking? Because you’ve gotta take a leak?”

“It’s not funny, Dean.” Castiel is offended. “I don’t care for it. I find the whole process to be inconvenient and messy.”

“Messy? It shouldn’t be messy. How exactly are you…?” He can’t find a good way to finish the sentence.

“Is there more than one way to urinate?”

Probably. “Not really. At least not that I’m aware of. Or that I want to be aware of.”

Castiel sighs. “Also, my body has been sweating. Quite heavily at times. It’s sticky and,” Castiel sniffs at his own armpit, “unpleasant.”

Dean snorts. “I _did_ notice that you’re beginning to smell like Sam.”

“Dean.”

“Okay, okay. Sorry. You’re not the only one, I’m pretty ripe myself. Maybe tomorrow we can hike down to the beach, bring one of those mini hotel shampoo bottles Dom’s brought us. Scrub ourselves clean in the big blue sea. Sound good to you?”

“Tomorrow?” Castiel frowns, tugs at the neckline of his pullover.

“Well we can’t do it tonight. The sun’s gonna set soon, and the path I saw is rocky and steep. It isn’t exactly a cakewalk.”

“I wasn’t aware. I could only tell that it is close. The air outside smells of brine, and from the cliff I can hear the waves collide with rock. I’ve always enjoyed the earth’s oceans. There’s nothing else quite like them.”

“Not even in Heaven?” Dean asks.

“Especially not in Heaven.”

Dean smiles, pleased that Castiel’s problems are ones he can solve. Maybe they should make a pitstop at the beach before they head out to Jesse and Cesar’s ranch when this is over. Maybe they can do more than that. “I don’t mind holding a cup for you if you wanna piss into it, or if you’d rather, there’s a perfectly good bush right outside the back door that’ll do the trick. No need to go all the way to the outhouse, unless you’ve got to--”

“She tortures angels.”

Damn it to hell. There it is. Dean sucks in a breath. “Yeah, I know, buddy. That’s what ‘unconventional’ generally means.”

“Dean. I have to do something.”

Dean leans forward in his chair. “Look, we only know that she _has._ There’s no reason to believe that it’s something that’s still going on. All the angels are back in Heaven, right? You and Hannah rounded them up?”

“We did what we could, but some chose to stay.” Castiel shakes his head, remembering. “After Daniel and Adina, we stopped forcing them to return. There were many angels unaccounted for, presumed to be dead, as there was no trace of their grace. But if the grace was bound as mine has been, if it was rendered imperceptible to Heaven, there could be any number of them still alive and here on earth.”

“As prisoners of the Men of Letters?”

Castiel nods. “It’s possible, and I have to find out. I’ve tried to send some signals out, but I have no way of knowing if they’re being received unless there’s a reply.”

“Angel radio still working?”

“I don’t know. It did before, when I was human, but it’s been silent since The Darkness, so I can’t tell.” Castiel pauses, raises his chin to make his announcement. “If the Men of Letters are holding angels against their will, I am compelled to offer myself in trade for their release.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes. I am.” Castiel raises his voice slightly. “I owe them that.”

“You owe them nothing,” Dean insists. “Look, if it wasn’t for us, _including you_ , Cas, angels wouldn’t even exist anymore. When push came to shove, they wouldn't lift a finger to help out with The Darkness. They gave up before the fight was over. As far as I’m concerned, they've done nothing but cause trouble. They don't care about you, or any of us. I don’t get why you’re always so willing to sacrifice yourself for them.”

Castiel sighs. “Perhaps it’s because they’re my--”

“Don’t say family,” Dean spits out through gritted teeth. “Please, don’t you say family because, fuck, Cas, they don’t know what family is. They’re not your family.”

“I was going to say they’re my responsibility. You _are_ aware that I am responsible for what’s happened to them.”

“You made a mistake. Doesn’t change the fact that they’re dicks.” Dean scoots his chair as close as he can get it to Castiel and finds himself facing him, their knees bumping together awkwardly.

“I know how you feel about them, Dean, you’ve certainly made no effort to hide it. But you judge their behavior by human standards. You always have, and it’s unfair. Angels aren’t human. You can’t compare them to humans.”

“Stop defending them. Besides, I’m not comparing them to humans, I’m comparing them to _you._ _You’re_ an angel.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”  It’s barely audible, Castiel’s voice so small and unsure.

“What makes you say that? This spell, or whatever is tying up your grace, it’s only temporary.”

“It has nothing to do with the spell.” Castiel says. “I felt this way before the spell.”

“Then what is it?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t understand it myself. I don’t understand much of what happens in here.” He pounds on his chest with a loose fist. “Regardless, the angels don’t think of me as one of them. Not anymore.”

“Cas…”

“And neither do I. I may still have my grace, and what’s left of my wings, but I truly do not know _what_ I am.”

“So what?" Dean says, more harshly than intended. He adjusts his tone. "It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter _what_ you are, but _who_ you are, and _who_ you are is the best friend I've ever had. You’re good, and you're kind, and you're selfless--way too selfless. I’ve never met anyone, human or otherwise, with a bigger heart than you.”

“The heart of a fully transformed rugaru weighs --”

“Not what I mean, Cas.” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. “I know you want to fix your mistakes. I get it, I do. But this one’s not on you. Some  _Kill Bill_ bullshit agenda of a twisted sister with a hard on for halos is not on you.”

“I don’t see it that way.”

“Yeah, well, you never do.” Dean leans back in his chair, sighs loudly. “I’m not asking you to forget about them. I’m reminding you that we have a plan in place, and we need to stick to it. Sam and Eileen will find out exactly what’s going on, and if there are innocent angels that need our help, we’ll help them. I promise. But it won’t be just you. It’ll be all of us, together. As a team. No more one-man shows. Capiche?”

Arguing with Castiel is like arguing with himself--or at least the self he used to be before Amara’s gift. Compulsive. Short-sighted. Stubborn. Okay, maybe he’s still stubborn, but there’s no doubt that Castiel could’ve benefited from a good, heaping dose of Mary Winchester as well.

“Please, Cas,” Dean begs, softens his delivery. “You’ve gotta stop being so goddamned nonchalant with your life.”

Eyes narrowed, Castiel takes a few moments to study the man he cannot see. “Why?”

“Why?” The question stuns Dean at first, but it shouldn’t. Castiel’s willingness to throw himself in harm’s way has escalated to the point of concern. “Because I’ve got plans for it, that’s why.”

Castiel lolls his head to one side, his confusion genuine. “What kind of _plans_?” 

Dean clears his throat. “Well, that’s something you and I should talk about while we wait to hear from Sam and Eileen. Sound good?”

Castiel hesitates. "There’s something I have to tell you first.”

Shit. Dean closes his eyes, waits.

“I still have to… urinate.”

Dean exhales loudly. “Don’t worry buddy,” he grins. “I've got ya.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://thestoryinsideme.tumblr.com//) here!


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